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23  WIST  MAIN  STRUT 

WIBSTIR.N.Y.  UStO 

(71«)  e;2-4S03 


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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


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■^^^^^^H 

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Bl^H^IH 

CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadi'  1  Institute  for  Historical  Microruproductions  /institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/tJotos  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


□ 


Couverture  endommagde 

Covers  restored  ^nd/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurde  et/ou  pelliculde 


Ccver  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  gdographiques  en  couleur 


r~V^Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
I      i    Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


n 


D 


n 


Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Relii  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
a*ong  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serrec  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intdrieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajout^es 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  itait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  filmies. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl^mentaires; 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exempiaire  qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mdthode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiqu^s  ci-dessous. 


□    Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 

n    Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagdes 

□    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaurdes  et/ou  pellicul6es 


to 


D 


Tl 

P< 
oi 
fil 


O 
b4 
th 
si 

01 

fil 
si 

OI 


Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  d6color6es,  tachet^es  ou  piqu6es 


n    Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d6tach6os 

r~~j/Showthrough/ 
\JLj    Transparence 

I      I    Quality  of  print  varies/ 


Quality  indgale  de  Timpression 

Includes  supplementary  material/ 
Comprpiid  du  materiel  supplementaire 


D 
D 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
cbscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6tt,  filmies  d  nouveau  de  facon  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


Tl 
si 

Tl 
w 

di 
ei 
b( 
ri{ 
re 
m 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  filmi  au  taux  de  rMuction  indiqui  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

/ 

12X 

16X 

20X 

24X 

28X 

32X 

tails 
du 

>difier 
une 
nage 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  cont/act  specifications. 


L'exemplaire  filmd  fut  reproduit  grdce  d  la 
g6n6rosit6  de: 

Bibliothdque  nationale  du  Canada 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tonu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettet6  de  I'exempiaire  filmd,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dunt  la  couverture  en 
pap^or  est  imprimie  sont  film6s  en  cor^men^ant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  salt  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  salon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmto  en  commenpant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  derniire  page  qui  comporte  un>f  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  -^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  imeaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — ►  signif ie  "A  SUIVRE  ",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  d;:re 
filmis  d  des  taux  de  rMuction  diffdrents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reprodiMt  en  un  seul  cliche,  it  est  fi!m6  k  partir 
de  Tangle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
ot  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nicessaire.  les  diag''ammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m6thode. 


rrata 
:o 


pelure, 
1  d 


□ 


32X 


1  2  3 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

T 


/ 


aeons 


^ 


% 


WHAT'S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE. 


CHAPTER  I. 


ELMA  S  STRANGER. 


It  was  late  when  Elma  reached  the  station.  Her  pony  had 
jibbed  on  the  way  down  hill,  and  the  train  was  just  on  the 
point  of  moving  off  as  she  hurried  upon  the  platform.  Oid 
Matthews,  the  stout  and  chubby-cheeked  station-master,  seized 
her  most  unceremoniously  by  the  left  arm,  and  bundled  her 
into  a  carriage.  He  had  known  her  from  a  child,  so  he  could 
venture  upon  such  liberties. 

"  Second  class,  miss?  Yes,  miss.  Here  y'are.  Look  sharp, 
please!  Any  more  goin'  on  ?  All  right,  Tom!  Go  ahead 
there!  "  And  lifting  his  left  hand,  he  whistled  a  shrill  signal 
to  the  guard  to  start  her. 

As  for  Elma,  somewhat  hot  in  the  face  with  the  wild  rush 
for  her  ticket,  and  grasping  her  uncounted  change,  pence  and 
all,  in  her  little  gloved  hand,  she  found  herself  thrust,  hap- 
hazard, at  the  very  last  moment,  into  the  last  compartment  of 
the  last  carriage — alone — with  an  artist. 

Now,  you  and  I,  to  be  sure,  most  proverbially  courteous  and 
intelligent  reader,  might  never  have  guessed  at  first  sight,  from 
the  young  man's  outer  aspect,  the  nati're  of  h''!  occupation. 
The  gross  and  clumsy  male  intellect,  which  works  in  accord- 
ance with  the  stupid  laws  of  inductive  logic,  has  a  queer  habit 
of  requiring  something  or  other,  in  the  way  of  definite  evi- 
dence, before  it  commits  itself  off-hand  to  the  distinct  conclu- 
sion. But  Elma  Clifford  was  a  woman;  and  therefore  she 
knew  a  more  excellent  way.  Her  habit  was,  rather  to  look 
things  once  fairly  and  squarely  in  the  face,  and  then,  with  the 
unerring  intuition  of  her  sex,  to  make  up  her  mind  about 
them  firmly,  at  once  and  forever.    That's  oae  of  the  many 

(fi> 


^^ 


B 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


glorious  advantages  of  being  born  a  woman.  You  don't 
need  to  learn  in  order  to  know.  You  know  instinctively. 
And  yet  our  girls  want  to  go  to  Girton,  and  train  themselves 
up  to  be  senior  wranglers! 

Elma  Clifford,  however,  had  nof  been  to  Girton,  so,  as  she 
stumbled  into  her  place,  she  snatched  one  hurried  look  at 
Cyril  Waring's  face,  and  new  at  a  glance  he  was  a  landscape 
painter. 

Now  this  was  clever  of  her,  even  in  a  woman,  for  Cyril 
Waring,  as  he  fondly  imaginfid,  was  traveling  that  line  that 
day  disguised  as  a  stock  broker.  In  other  won'  ,  there  was 
none  of  the  brown  velveteen  affectation  about  his  easy  get- 
up.  He  was  an  artist,  to  be  sure,  but  he  hadn't  assiduously 
and  obtrusively  dressed  his  character.  Instead  of  cutting 
his  beard  to  a  Vandyke  point,  or  enduing  his  body  in  a  Titian- 
esque  coat,  or  wearing  on  his  head  a  slouched  Rembrandt  hat, 
stuck  carelessly  just  a  trifle  on  one  side  in  artistic  disorder, 
he  was  habited  for  all  the  world  like  anybody  else,  in  the 
gray  tweed  suit  of  the  common  British  tourist,  surmounted  by 
the  light  felt  hat  (or  bowler)  to  match,  of  the  modern 
English  country  gentleman.  Even  the  soft  silk  necktie  of  a 
delicate  aesthetic  hue  that  adorned  his  open  throat  didn't 
proclaim  him  at  once  a  painter  by  trade.  It  showed  him 
merely  as  a  man  of  taste,  with  a  decided  eye  for  harmonies  of 
color. 

So  when  Elma  pronounced  her  fellow-traveler  immediately, 
in  her  own  mind,  a  landscape  artist,  she  was  exercising  the 
familiar  feminine  prerogative  of  jumping,  as  if  by  magic,  to  a 
correct  conclusion.  It's  a  provoking  way  they  have,  those 
inscrutable  women,  which  no  mere  male  human  being  can  ever 
conceivably  fathom. 

She  was  just  about  to  drop  down,  as  propriety  demands, 
into  the  corner  seat  diagonally  opposite  to  (and  therefore  as 
far  as  possible  away  from)  her  handsome  companion,  when 
the  stranger  rose,  and  with  a  very  flushed  face,  said,  in  a 
hasty,  though  markedly  deferential  and  apologetic  tone: 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but- — excuse  me  for  mentioning  it — I 
think  you're  going  to  sit  down  upon — ur — pray  don't  be 
frightened — a  rather  large  snake  of  mine." 

There  was  something  so  comically  alarmed  in  the  ring  of 
his  tone — as  of  a  naughty  schoolboy  detected  in  a  piece  of 
mischief — that,  propriety  to   the   contrary  notwithstanding. 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


f 


of 
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Elma  couldn't  :or  the  life  of  her  repress  a  smile.    She  looked 
down  at  the  seat  where  the  stranger  pointed,  and  there,  sure 
enough,  coiled  up  in  huge  folds,  with  his  glossy  head  in  atti- 
tude to  spring  at  her,  a  great  banded  snake  lay  alert  and  open 
eyed. 

"  Dear  me,"  Elma  cried,  drawing  back  a  little  in  surprise, 
but  not  at  all  in  horror,  as  she  felt  she  ought  to  do.  "A 
snake!     How  curious!     I  hope  he's  not  dangerous." 

"  Not  at  all,"  the  young  man  answered,  still  in  the  same  half- 
guilty  tone  of  voice  as  before.  "  He's  of  a  poisonous  kind,  you 
know;  but  his  fangs  have  been  extracted.  He  won't  do  you 
any  injury.  He's  perfectly  harmless.  Aren't  you,  Sardanap- 
alus?  Eh,  eh,  my  beauty?  But  I  oughtn't  to  have  let  him 
loose  in  the  carriage,  of  course,"  he  added,  after  a  short  pause. 
**  It's  calculated  to  alarm  a  nervous  passenger.  Only  I  thought 
I  was  alone,  and  nobody  would  come  in;  so  I  let  him  out  for  a 
bit  of  a  run  between  the  stations.  It's  so  dull  for  him,  poor 
fellow,  being  shut  up  in  his  box  all  the  time  when  he's  trav- 
eling." 

Elma  looked  down  at  the  beautiful,  glossy  creature  with 
genuine  admiration.  His  skin  was  like  enamel;  his  banded 
scales  shown  bright  and  silvery.  She  didn't  know  why,  but 
somehow  she  felt  she  wasn't  in  the  east  afraid  of  him.  "I 
suppose  one  ought  to  be  repelled  at  once  by  a  snake,"  she  said, 
taking  the  opposite  seat,  and  keeping  her  glance  fixed  firmly 
upon  the  reptile's  eye;  "but  then,  this  is  such  a  handsome 
one  !  I  can't  say  why,  but  I  don\  feel  afraid  of  him  at  all  as 
I  ought  to  do.  Every  right-minded  person  detests  snakes, 
don't  they?  And  yet,  how  exquisitely  flexible  and  beauti- 
ful he  is  !  Oh,  pray  don't  put  him  back  in  his  box  for  me. 
He'j  basking  in  the  sun  here.  I  should  be  sorry  to  disturb 
him." 

Cyril  Waring  looked  at  her  in  considerable  surprise.  He 
caught  the  creature  in  his  hands  as  he  spoke,  and  transferred 
it  at  once  to  a  tin  box  with  a  perforated  lid  that  lay  beside  him. 
"Go  back,  Sardanapalus,"  he  said  in  a  very  musical  and  pleas- 
ant voice,  forcing  the  huge  beast  into  the  lair  with  gentle  but 
masterful  hands.  "  Go  back,  and  go  to  sleep,  sir.  It's  time 
for  your  nap.  .  .  .  Oh,  no,  I  couldn't  think  of  letting  him  out 
any  more  in  the  carriage  to  the  annoyance  of  others.  I'm 
ashamed  enough  as  it  is  of  having  unintentionally  alarmed 
you.    But  you  came  in  so  unexpectedly,  you  see,  I  hadn't  time 


8 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


to  put  my  queer  pet  away;  and,  when  the  door  opened,  I  was 
afraid  he  might  slip  out,  or  get  under  the  seats,  so  all  I  could 
do  was  just  to  soothe  him  with  my  hand,  and  keep  him  quiet 
till  the  door  was  shut  to  again." 

"Indeed,  I  wasn't  at  all  afraid  of  him,"  Elma  answered, 
slipping  her  change  into  her  pocket  and  looking  prettier 
through  her  blush  than  even  her  usual  self.  "  On  the  con- 
trary, I  really  liked  to  see  him.  He's  such  a  glorious  snake  ! 
The  lights  and  shades  on  his  back  are  so  glancing  and  so  won- 
derful !  He's  a  perfect  model.  Of  course,  you're  painting 
him." 

The  stranger  started. 

"  I'm  painting  him  —  yes,  that's  true,"  he  replied,  with  a  look 
of  sudden  surprise;  "but  why  *  of  course,' please  ?  How  on 
earth  could  you  tell  I  was  an  artist  even  ?" 

Elma  glanced  back  in  his  face,  and  wondered  to  herself,  too. 
Now  she  came  to  think  of  it,  how  did  she  know  that  handsome 
young  man,  with  the  charming  features,  and  the  expressive 
eyes,  and  the  neatly  cut  brown  beard,  and  the  attractive  man- 
ner, was  an  artist  at  all,  or  anything  like  it  ?  And  how  did  she 
know  the  snake  was  his  model  ?  For  the  life  of  her  she 
couldn't  have  answered  those  questions  herself. 

"  I  suppose  I  just  guessed  it,"  she  answered,  after  a  short 
pause,  blushing  still  more  deeply  at  the  sudden  way  she  had 
thus  been  dragged  into  conversation  with  the  good-looking 
stranger.  Elma's  skin  was  dark  —  a  clear  and  creamy  olive- 
brown  complexion,  such  as  one  sometimes  sees  in  Southern 
Europe,  though  rarely  in  England;  and  the  effect  of  the  blush 
through  it  didn't  pass  unnoticed  by  Cyril  Waring's  artistic  eye. 
He  would  have  given  something  for  the  chance  of  transferring 
that  delicious  effect  to  canvas.  The  delicate  transparency  of 
the  blush  threw  up  those  piercing  dark  eyes,  and  reflected 
lustre  even  on  the  glossy  black  hair  that  fringed  her  forehead. 
Not  an  English  type  of  beauty  at  all,  Elma  Clifford's,  he 
thought  to  himself  as  he  eyed  her  closely;  rather  Spanish  or 
Italian,  or  say  even  Hungarian. 

"  Well,  you  guessed  right  at  any  rate,"  he  went  on,  settling 
down  in  his  seat  once  more,  after  boxing  his  snake,  but  this 
time  face  to  face  with  her. 

"I'm  working  at  a  beautiful  bit  of  fern  and  foliage  —  quite 
tropical  in  its  way  —  in  a  wood  hereabout;  and  I've  introduced 
Sardanapalus,  coiled  up  in  the  foreground,  just  to  give  life  to 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


9 


or 

this 

lite 
Iced 
to 


the  scene,  don't  you  know,  ctnd  an  excuse  for  a  title.  I  mean 
to  call  it '  The  Rajah's  Rest.'  Behind,  great  ferns  and  a  mossy 
bank;  in  front,  Sardanapalus,  after  tiffin,  rolled  spirally  round, 
and  taking  his  siesta." 

This  meeting  was  a  long-wished-for  occasion.  Elma  had 
never  before  met  a  real  live  painter.  Now,  it  was  the  cher- 
ished idea  of  her  youth  to  see  something  some  day  of  that 
wonderful,  non-existent,  fantastic  world  which  we  still  hope 
for,  and  dream  about,  and  call  Bohemia.  She  longed  to  move 
in  literary  and  artistic  circles.  She  had  fashioned  to  herself, 
like  many  other  romantic  girls,  a  rose-colored  picture  of  Bohe- 
mian existence;  not  knowing,  indeed,  that  Bohemia  is  now, 
alas  !  an  extinct  province,  since  Belgravia  and  Kensington 
swallowed  it  bodily  down,  digested  and  assimilated  it.  So 
this  casual  talk  with  the  handsome  young  artist  in  the  second- 
class  carriage,  on  the  Great  Southern  line,  was  to  Elma  as  a 
charming  and  delightful  glimpse  of  an  enchanted  region  she 
could  never  enter.  It  was  Paradise  to  the  Peri.  She  turned 
the  conversation  at  once,  therefore,  with  resolute  intent,  upon 
art  and  artists,  determined  to  make  the  most  while  it  lasted  of 
this  unique  opportunity.  And  since  the  subject  of  self,  with 
an  attentive  listener,  is  always  an  attractive  one,  even  to  mod- 
est young  men  like  Cyril  Waring  —  especially  when  it's  a 
pretty  girl  who  encourages  you  to  dilate  upon  it  —  why,  the 
consequence  was  that  before  many  minutes  were  over,  the 
handsome  young  man  was  discoursing  from  his  full  heart  to  a 
sympathetic  soul  about  his  chosen  art,  its  hopes  and  its  ideals, 
accompanied  by  a  running  fire  of  thumb-nail  illustrations.  He 
had  even  got  so  far  in  the  course  of  their  fntimacy  as  to  take 
out  the  portfolio,  which  lay  hidden  under  the  seat  (out  of  def- 
erence to  his  disguise  as  a  stock  broker,  no  doubt),  and  to  dis- 
play before  Elma's  delighted  eyes,  with  many  explanatory 
comments  as  to  light  and  shade,  or  perspective  and  foreshort- 
ening, the  studies  for  the  picture  he  had  just  then  engaged 
upon. 

By  and  by,  as  his  enthusiasm  warmed  under  Elma's  en- 
couragement, the  young  artist  produced  Sardanapalus  himself 
once  more  from  his  box,  and,  with  deftly  persuasive  fingers, 
coiled  him  gracefully  round  on  the  opposite  seat  into  the  pre- 
cise attitude  he  was  expected  to  take  up  whep  he  sat  for  his 
portrait  in  the  mossy  foreground. 

Elma  couldn't  say  why,  but  that  creature  fascinated  her. 


10 


-•-. 


WHAT  S    BRED    IN    THE   BONE. 


\ 


h ! 


The  longer  she  looked  at  him  the  more  hitensely  he  interested 
her.  Not  that  she  was  one  bit  afraid  of  him,  as  she  might 
reasonably  have  expected  to  be,  according  to  ail  womanly 
precedent.  On  the  contrary,  she  felt  an  overwhelming  desire 
to  take  him  up  in  her  own  hands  and  stroke  and  fondle  him. 
He  was  so  lithe  and  beautiful;  his  scales  so  glistened!  At  last 
she  stretched  out  one  dainty  gloved  hand  to  pet  the  spotted 
neck. 

"Take  care,"  the  painter  cried  in  a  warning  voice;  "  don't 
be  frightened  if  he  springs  at  you.  He's  vicious  at  times. 
But  his  fangs  are  drawn;  he  can't  possibly  hurt  you." 

The  warning,  however,  was  quite  unnecessary.  Sardanapa- 
lus,  instead  of  springing,  seemed  to  recognize  a  friend.  He 
darted  out  his  forked  tongue  in  rapid  vibration,  and  licked  her 
neat  gray  glove  respectfully.  Then,  lifting  his  flattened  head 
with  serpentine  deliberation,  he  coiled  his  great  folds  slowly, 
slowly,  with  sinuous  curves,  round  the  girl's  soft  arm  till  he 
reached  her  neck  in  long,  winding  convolutions.  There  he 
held  up  his  face,  and  trilled  his  swift,  sibilant  tongue  once 
more  with  evident  pleasure.  He  knew  his  place.  He  was 
perfectly  at  home  at  once  with  the  pretty,  olive-skinned  lady. 
His  master  looked  on  in  profound  surprise. 

"  Why,  you're  a  perfect  snake  charmer,"  he  cried  at  last, 
regarding  her  with  open  eyes  of  wonder.  "I  never  saw  Sar- 
danapalus  behave  like  that  with  a  stranger  before.  He's 
generally  by  no  means  fond  of  new  acquaintances.  You  must 
be  used  to  snakes.  Perhaps  you've  kept  one?  You're  accus- 
tomed of  old  to  their  ways  and  manners?" 

"  No,  indeed,"  Elma  cried,  laughing,  in  spite  of  herself,  a 
clear  little  laugh  of  feminine  triumph;  for  she  had  made  a 
conquest,  she  saw,  of  Sardanapalus;  "I  never  so  much  as 
touched  one  in  all  my  life  before;  and  I  thought  I  should 
hate  them.  But  this  one  seems  quite  tame  and  tractable.  I'm 
not  in  the  least  afraid  of  him.  He  is  so  soft  and  smooth,  and 
his  movements  are  all  so  perfectly  gentle." 

"  Ah,  that's  the  way  with  snakes  always,"  Cyril  Waring  put 
in,  with  an  admiring  glance  at  the  pretty,  fearless  brunette  and 
her  strange  companion. 

"  They  know  at  once  whether  people  like  them  or  not,  and 
they  govern  themselves  accordingly.  I  suppose  it's  instinct. 
When  they  see  you're  afraid  of  them,  they  spring  and  hiss; 
but  when  they  see  you  take  to  them  by  nature,  they  make 


I 


^i 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


n 


|lf,  a 

e  a 

Ih  as 

lould 

I'm 

and 

put 
and 

and 
jinct. 
Ihiss; 

lake 


4 


themselves  perfectly  at  home  in  a  moment.  They  don't  wait 
to  be  asked.  They've  no  false  modesty.  Well,  then,  you  see," 
he  went  on,  drawing  imaginary  lines  with  his  ticket  on  the 
sketch  he  was  holding  up,  '*  I  shall  work  in  Sardanapalus  just 
there,  like  that,  coiled  round  in  a  spire.  You  catch  the  idea, 
dr^n't  you?" 

As  he  spoke,  Elma's  eye,  following  his  hand  while  it  moved, 
chanced  to  fall  suddenly  on  the  name  of  the  station  printed 
on  the  ticket  with  which  he  was  pointing.  She  gave  a  sharp 
little  start. 

"Warnworth!"  she  cried,  flushing  up,  with  some  slight 
embarrassment  in  her  voice ;  "  why,  that's  ever  so  far  back. 
We're  long  past  Warnworth.  We  ran  by  it  three  or  four 
stations  behind;  in  fact,  it's  the  next  place  to  Chetwood, 
where  I  got  in  at." 

Cyril  Waring  looked  up  with  a  half-guilty  smile  as  em- 
barrassed as  her  own. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  quietly;  "  I  knew  that  quite  well.  I'm 
down  here  often.  It's  half  way  between  Chetwood  and  Warn- 
worth I'm  painting.  But  I  thought — well,  if  you'll  excuse  me 
saying  it,  I  thought  I  was  so  comfortable  and  so  happy  where 
I  was  that  I  might  just  as  well  go  on  a  station  or  two  more, 
and  then  pay  the  difference,  and  take  the  next  train  back  to 
Warnworth.  You  see,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  with  a  still 
more  apologetic  and  peninent  air,  "  I  saw  you  were  so  inter- 
ested in — well,  in  snakes  you  know,  and  pictures." 

Gentle  as  he  was,  and  courteous,  and  perfectly  frank  with 
her,  Elma,  nevertheless,  felt  really  half  inclined  to  be  angry 
at  this  queer  avowal.  That  is  to  say,  at  least,  she  knew  it 
was  her  bounden  duty,  as  an  English  lady,  to  seem  so;  and 
she  seemed  so,  accordingly,  with  most  Britannic  severity. 
She  drew  herself  up  in  a  very  stiff  style,  and  stared  fixedly  at 
him,  while  she  began  slowly  and  steadily  to  uncoil  Sardanap- 
alus from  her  imprisoned  arm  with  profound  dignity. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  should  have  brought  you  so  tar  out  of  your 
way,"  she  said,  in  a  studied,  cold  voice  (though  that  was  quite 
untrue,  for,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  had  enjoyed  their  talk 
together  immensely);  "and  besides,  you've  been  wasting  your 
valuable  time  when  you  ought  to  have  been  painting.  You'll 
hardly  get  any  work  done  now  at  all  this  morning.  I  must 
ask  you  to  get  out  at  the  very  next  station." 

The  young  man  bowed  with  a  crestfallen  air.    "  No  time 


12 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


could  possibly  be  wasted,"  he  began,  with  native  politeness— 
"that  was  spent" — then  he  broke  off  quite  suddenly.  "I 
shall  certainly  get  out  wherever  you  wish,"  he  went  on,  more 
slowly,  in  an  altered  voice;  "  and  I  sincerely  regret  if  I've 
unwittingly  done  anything  to  annoy  you  in  any  way.  The 
fact  is,  the  talk  carried  me  away.  It  was  art  that  misled  me. 
I  didn't  mean,  I'm  sure,  to  obtrude  myself  upon  you." 

And  even  as  he  spoke,  they  whisked,  unawares,  into  the 
darkness  of  a  tunnel. 


CHAPTER  II. 
two's  company. 


i-  if 


1 '     ' 

-/if 


it    . 


*ll 


Elma  was  just  engaged  in  debating  with  herself  internally 
how  a  young  lady  of  perfect  manners  and  impeccable  breed- 
ing, traveling  without  a  chaperon,  ought  to  behave  under  such 
trying  circumstances,  after  having  allowed  herself  to  be  drawn 
unawares  into  familiar  conversation  with  a  most  attractive 
young  artist,  when  all  of  a  sudden  a  rapid  jerk  of  the  carriage 
succeeded  in  extricating  her  perforce,  and  against  her  will, 
from  this  av/kward  dilemma.  Something  sharp  pulied  up 
their  train  unexpectedly.  She  was  aware  of  a  loud  noise  and 
a  crash  in  front,  almost  instantaneously  followed  by  a  thrill- 
ing jar — a  low,  dull  thud — a  sound  of  broken  glass — a  quick, 
blank  stoppage.  Next  instant  she  found  herself  flung  wildly 
forward  into  her  neighbor's  arms,  while  the  artist,  for  his  part, 
with  outst'-etched  hands,  was  vainly  endeavoring  to  break  the 
force  of  the  fall  for  her. 

A'l  she  knew  for  the  first  few  minutes  was  merely  that  there 
had  been  an  accident  to  the  train,  and  they  were  standing 
still  now  in  the  darkness  of  the  tunnel. 

For  some  seconds  she  paused,  and  gasped  hard  for  breath, 
and  tried  in  vain  to  recall  her  scattered  senses.  Then  slowly 
she  sunk  back  on  the  seat  once  more,  vaguely  conscious  that 
something  terrible  had  happened  to  the  train,  but  that  neither 
she  nor  her  companion  were  seriously  injured. 

As  she  sunk  back  in  her  place,  Cyril  Waring  bent  forward 
toward  her  with  sympathetic  kindliness. 

"You're  not  hurt,  I  hope  ?"  he  said,  holding  out  one  hand  to 


^ 


It    ; j 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


13 


help  her  rise.  "  Stand  up  a  minute,  and  see  if  you're  any- 
thing worse  than  severely  shaken.  No  ?  That's  right,  then  ! 
That's  well,  as  far  as  it  goes.  But  I'm  afraid  the  nervous 
shock  must  have  been  very  rough  on  you." 

Elma  stood  up,  with  tears  gathering  fast  in  her  eyes.  She'd 
have  given  the  world  to  be  able  to  cry  now,  for  the  jar  had 
half-stunned  her  and  shaken  her  brain;  but  before  the  artist's 
face  she  was  ashamed  to  give  free  play  to  her  feelings.  So 
she  only  answered,  iu  a  careless  sort  of  tone  : 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing  much,  I  think.  My  head  feels  ralher 
queer;  but  I've  no  bones  broken.  A  collision,  I  suppose. 
Oughtn't  we  to  get  out  at  once  and  see  what's  happened  to 
the  other  people  ?  " 

Cyril  Waring  moved  hastily  to  the  door,  and,  letting  down 
the  v/indow,  tried  with  a  violent  effort  to  turn  the  handle  from 
the  outside.  But  the  door  wouldn't  open.  As  often  happens 
in  such  accidents,  the  jar  had  jammed  it.  He  tried  the  other 
side,  and  with  some  difficulty  at  last  succeeded  in  forcing  it 
open.  Then  he  descended  cautiously  on  to  the  six-foot- way, 
and  held  out  his  hand  to  help  Elma  from  the  carriage. 

It  was  no  collision,  he  saw  at  once,  but  a  far  more  curious 
and  unusual  accident. 

Looking  ahead  through  the  tunnel,  all  was  black  as  night. 
A  dense  wall  of  earth  seemed  to  block  and  fill  in  the  whole 
space  in  front  of  thenL  Part  of  one  broken  .md  shattered 
carriage  lay  tossed  about  in  wild  confusion  on  the  ground  close 
by.     Their  own  had  escaped.     All  the  rest  was  darkness. 

In  a  moment,  Cyril  rightly  divined  what  must  have  hap- 
pened to  the  train.  The  roof  of  the  tunnel  had  caved  in  on 
top  of  it.  At  least  one  carriage — the  one  immediately  in  front 
of  them — had  been  crushed  and  shattered  by  the  foroe  of  its 
fall.  Their  own  was  the  last,  and  it  had  been  saved  as  if  by  a 
miracle.     It  lay  ju&t  outside  the  scene  of  the  subsidence. 

One  *Iiought  rose  instinctively  at  once  in  the  young  man's 
mind.  They  must  first  see  if  anyone  was  injured  in  the  other 
compartments,  or  among  the  d6bris  of  the  broken  carriage; 
and  then  they  must  make  for  the  open  mouth  of  the  tunnel, 
through  which  the  light  of  day  still  gleamed  bright  behind 
them. 

He  peered  in  hastily  at  the  other  three  windows.  Not  a 
soul  in  any  one  of  the  remaining  compartments!  It  was  a 
very  empty  train,  he  had  noticed  himself,  when  he  got  in  at 


14 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


P  ! 


Tilgate;  the  one  solitary  occupant  of  the  front  compartment 
of  their  carriage,  a  fat  old  lady  with  a  big  black  bag,  ha^ 
bundled  out  at  Chetwood.  They  were  alone  in  the  tunnel,  at 
this  end  of  the  train,  at  least;  their  sole  duty  now  was  to  make 
haste  and  save  themselves. 

He  gazed  overhead.  The  tunnel  was  bricked  in  with  an 
arch  on  top.  The  way  through  in  front  was  blocked,  of  course, 
by  the  fallen  mass  of  water-logged  sandstone.  He  glanced 
back  toward  the  open  mouth.  A  curious  circumstance,  half- 
way down  to  the  opening,  attracted  at  once  his  keen  and  prac- 
ticed eye. 

Strange  to  say,  the  roof  at  one  spot  was  not  a  true  arc  of  «\ 
circle.  It  bulged  slightly  downward,  in  a  flattened  arch,  as  if 
some  superincumbent  weight  were  pressing  hard  upon  it.  Great 
heavens!  what  was  this?  Another  trouble  in  store!  He  looked 
again,  still  more  earnestly,  and  started  with  horror. 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  his  reason  told  him,  beyond  lihe 
shadow  of  a  doubt,  what  was  happening  at  the  bulge.  A  sec- 
ond fall  was  just  about  to  take  place  close  by  them.  Clearly, 
there  were  t7£>o  weak  points  in  the  roof  of  the  tunnel.  One  had 
already  given  way  in  front;  the  other  was  on  the  very  eve  of 
giving  way  behind  them.  If  it  fell,  they  were  imprisoned 
between  two  impassable  walls  of  sand  and  earth.  Without 
one  instant's  delay,  he  turned  and  seized  his  companion's  hand 
hastily. 

"Quickl  quick!"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  of  eager  warning. 
"Run,  run  for  your  life  to  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel!  Here, 
come!     You've  only  just  time!     It's  going,  it's  going!  " 

But  Elma's  feminine  instinct  worked  quicker  and  truer  than 
even  Cyril  Waring's  manly  reason.  She  didn't  know  why;  she 
couldn't  say  how;  but  in  that  one  indivisible  moment  of  time 
she  had  taken  in  and  grasped  to  the  full  all  the  varying  terrors 
of  the  situation.  Instead  of  running,  however,  she  held  back 
her  companion  with  a  nervous  force  she  could  never  before 
have  imagined  herself  capable  of  exerting. 

"  Stup  here,"  she  cried,  authoritatively,  wrenching  his  arm 
in  her  haste.  "  If  you  go,  you'll  be  killed.  There's  no  time 
to  run  past.  It'll  be  down  before  you're  there.  See,  see,  it's 
falling!  " 

Even  before  the  words  were  well  out  of  her  mouth,  another 
great  crash  shook  the  ground  behind  them.  With  a  deafening 
roar,  the  tunnel  gave  way  in  a  second  place  beyond.    Dust  and 


i 


i,*ti 


ui 


ii  ■' 


v, 


what's  bred  in  thz  bone. 


16 


npartment 
bag,  ha^ 

tunnel,  at 
ts  to  make 

n  with  an 
of  course, 
e  glanced 
nee,  half- 
and  prac- 

:  arc  of  t\ 
irch,  as  if 
t.  Great 
te  looked 

^ond  Lhe 
A  sec- 
Clearly, 
One  had 
^  eve  of 
prisoned 
Without 
^'s  hand 

earning. 
Here, 

er  than 
hy;  she 
)f  time 
terrors 
3  back 
before 

is  arm 
)  time 
ee,  it's 

lother 
ening 
stand 


sand  fi".;d  the  air  confusedly.  For  a  minute  or  two  all  was 
noise  and  smoke  and  darkness.  What  exactly  had  happened 
neither  of  them  could  see.  But  now  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel 
was  blocked  at  either  end  alike,  and  no  daylight  was  visible. 
So  far  as  Cyril  could  judge,  they  two  s'ood  alone,  in  the  dark 
and  gloom,  as  in  a  narrov;  cell,  shut  in  with  their  carriage 
between  two  solid  walls  of  fallen  earth  and  crumbling  sand- 
store. 

At  this  fresh  misfortune,  Elma  sat  down  on  the  foot-board 
with  her  face  in  her  hands  and  began  to  sob  bitterly.  The 
artist  leaned  over  her  and  let  her  cry  for  awhile  in  quiet  de- 
spair. The  poor  girl's  nerves,  it  was  clear,  were  now  wholly 
unstrung.  She  was  brave,  as  women  go,  undoubtedly  brave; 
but  the  shock  and  the  terror  of  such  a  position  as  this  were 
more  than  enough  to  terrify  the  bravest.  At  last  Cyril  vent- 
ured on  a  single  remark. 

"  How  lucky,"  he  said,  in  an  undertone,  "  I  didn't  get  out  at 
Warnworth,  after  all.  It  would  have  been  dreadful  if  you'd 
been  left  all  alone  in  this  position." 

Elma  glanced  up  at  him  with  a  sadden  rush  of  gratitude. 
By  the  dim  light  of  the  oil-lamp  that  still  flickered  feebly  in 
the  carriage  overhead,  she  could  see  his  face;  and  she  ^new 
by  the  look  in  those  truthful  eyes  that  he  really  meant  it.  He 
really  meant  he  was  glad  he'd  come  on  and  exposed  himself  to 
this  risk,  which  he  might  otherwise  have  avoided,  because  he 
would  be  sorry  to  think  a  helpless  woman  should  be  left  alone 
by  herself  in  the  dark  to  face  it.  And,  frightened  as  she  was, 
she  was  glad  of  it,  too.  To  be  alone  would  be  awful.  This 
was  preeminently  one  of  those  many  positions  in  life  in  which 
a  woman  prefers  to  have  a  man  beside  her. 

And  yet  most  men,  she  knew,  would  have  thought  to  them- 
selves at  once,  "  What  a  fool  I  was  to  come  on  beyond  my 
proper  station,  and  let  myself  in  for  this  beastly  scrape,  just 
because  I'd  go  a  few  miles  farther  with  a  pretty  girl  I  never 
saw  in  my  life  before,  and  will  probably  never  see  in  my  life 
again,  if  I  once  get  well  out  of  this  precious  predicament." 

But  that  they  would  ever  get  out  of  it  at  all  seemed  to  both 
of  them  now  in  the  highest  degree  improbable.  Cyril,  by  rea- 
soii ,  Elma,  by  instinct,  argued  out  the  whole  situation  at  once, 
and  correctly.  There  had  been  much  rain  lately.  The  sand- 
stone was  water-logged.  It  had  caved  in  bodily  before  them 
and  behind  them.    A  little  isthmus  of  archway  still  held  out 


16 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


ji- 


lt 


in  isolation  just  above  their  heads.  At  any  moment  that  isth- 
mus might  give  way  too,  and,  falling  on  their  carriage,  might 
crush  them  beneath  its  weight.  Their  lives  depended  upon 
the  continued  resisting  power  of  some  fifteen  yards  or  so  of 
dislocated  masonry. 

Appalled  at  the  thought,  Cyril  moved  from  his  place  for  a 
minute,  and  went  forward  to  examine  the  fallen  block  in  front. 
Then  he  paced  his  way  back  with  groping  steps  to  the  equally 
ruinous  mass  behind  them.  Elma's  eyes,  growing  gradually 
accustomed  to  the  darkness  and  the  faint  glimmer  of  the  oil- 
lamps,  followed  his  action  with  vague  and  tearful  interest. 

"  If  the  roof  doesn't  give  way,"  he  said,  calmly,  at  last,  when 
he  returned  once  more  to  her,  "  and  if  we  can  only  let  them 
know  we're  alive  in  the  tunnel,  they  may  possibly  dig  us  out 
before  we  choke.  There's  air  enough  here  for  eighteen  hours 
for  us." 

He  spoke  very  quietly  and  reassuringly,  as  if  being  shut  up 
in  a  fallen  tunnel  between  two  masses  of  earth  were  a  matter 
that  needn't  cause  one  the  slightest  uneasiness;  but  his  words 
suggested  to  Elma's  mind  a  fresh  and  hitherto  unthought-of 
danger. 

"  Eighteen  hours! "  she  cried,  horror-struck.  "  Do  you  mean 
to  say  we  may  have  to  stop  here,  all  aJone,  for  eighteen  hours 
together  ?  Oh,  how  very  dreadful !  How  long !  How  fright- 
ening !  And  if  they  don't  dig  us  out  before  eighteen  hours 
are  over,  do  you  mean  to  say  we  shall  die  of  choking  ?  " 

Cyril  gazed  down  at  her  with  a  very  regretful  and  sympa- 
thetic face. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  frighten  you,"  he  said;  "at  least,  not 
more  than  you're  frightened  already;  but  of  course  there's 
only  a  certain  amount  of  oxygen  in  the  space  that's  left  us, 
and  as  we're  using  it  up  at  every  breath,  it'll  naturally  hold 
out  for  a  limited  time  only.  It  can't  be  much  more  than 
eighteen  hours.  Still,  I  don't  doubt  they'll  begin  digging  u» 
out  at  once;  and  if  they  dig  through  fast,  they  may  yet  be  in 
time,  even  so,  to  save  us." 

Elma  bent  forward  with  her  face  in  her  hands  again,  and, 
rocking  herself  to  and  fro  in  an  agony  of  despair,  gave  herself 
up  to  a  paroxysm  of  utter  misery.  This  was  too,  too  terrible ! 
To  think  of  eighteen  hours  in  that  gloom  and  suspense;  and 
then  to  die  at  last,  gasping  hard  for  breath,  in  the  poisonous 
air  of  that  pestilential  tunnel. 


mtl-Jti  -,  ..vOtaMk  U"  •■ 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


17 


For  nearly  an  hour  she  sat  there,  broken  down  and  speech- 
less; while  Cyril  Waring,  taking  a  seat  in  silence  by  her  side, 
tried  at  first  with  mute  sympathy  to  comfort  and  console  her. 
Then  he  turned  to  examine  the  roof  and  the  block  at  either 
end,  to  see  if  perchance  any  hope  remained  of  opening  by  main 
force  an  exit  anywhere.  He  even  began  by  removing  a  little 
of  the  sand  at  the  side  of  the  line  with  a  piece  of  shattered 
board  from  the  broken  carriage  in  front;  but  that  was  clearly 
no  use.  More  sand  tumbled  in  as  fast  as  he  removed  it.  He 
saw  there  was  nothing  left  for  it  but  patience  or  despair;  and 
of  the  two,  his  own  temperament  dictated  rather  patience. 

He  returned  at  last,  wearied  out,  to  Elma's  side.  Elma,  still 
sitting  disconsolate  on  the  foot-board,  rocking  herself  up  and 
down,  and  moaning  low  and  piteously,  looked  up  as  he  came 
with  a  mute  glance  of  inquiry.  She  was  very  pretty;  that 
struck  him  even  now.  Tt  made  his  heart  bleed  to  think  she 
should  be  so  cowed  and  terrified. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  bother  you,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  half-afraid 
to  speak,  "  but  there  are  four  lamps  all  burning  hard  in  these 
four  compartments,  and  using  up  the  air  we  may  need  by  and 
by  for  our  own  breathing.  If  I  were  to  climb  to  the  top  of 
the  carriage  —  which  I  can  easily  do  —  I  could  put  them  all 
out,  and  economize  our  oxygen.  It  would  leave  us  in  the 
dark,  but  it'd  give  us  one  more  chance  of  life.  Don't  you 
think  I'd  better  get  up  and  turn  them  off,  or  squash  them  ?" 

Elma  clasped  her  hands  in  horror  at  the  bare  suggestion. 

"Oh,  dear,  no!  "she  cried,  hastily.  "  Please, //<?<z^<?  don't 
do  that.  It's  bad  c.::ough  to  choke  slowly,  like  this,  in  the 
gloom.  But  to  die  in  clie  dark — that  would  be  ten  times  more 
terrible.  Why,  it's  a  perfect  Black  Hole  of  Calcutta,  even 
now.  If  you  were  to  turn  out  the  lights,  I  could  never 
stand  it." 

Cyril  gave  a  respectful  little  nod  of  assent. 

"  Very  well,"  he  answered,  as  calm  as  ever;  "that's  just  as 
you  will.  I  only  meant  to  suggest  it  to  you.  My  one  wish  is 
to  do  the  best  I  can  for  you.  Perhaps  "  — and  he  hesitated — 
"  perhaps  I'd  better  let  it  go  on  for  an  hour  or  two  more,  and 
then,  whenever  the  air  begins  to  get  very  oppressive — I  mean 
when  one  begins  to  feel  it's  really  failing  us — one  person,  you 
know,  could  live  on  so  much  longer  than  two;  it  would  be  a 
pity  not  to  let  you  stand  every  chance — perhaps  I  might — " 

Elma  gazed  at  him  aghast  in  the  utmost  horror.    She  knew 


IS 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


\t       ' 


I 


what  he  meant  at  once.     She  didn't  even  need  that  he  should 
finish  his  sentence. 

"  Never! "  she  said,  firmly  clenching  her  small  hand  hard. 
"  It's  so  wrong  of  you  to  think  of  it  even.  I  could  never  per- 
mit it.  It's  your  duty  to  keep  yourself  alive  at  all  hazards  as 
long  as  ever  you  can.  You  should  remember  your  mother, 
your  sisters,  your  family." 

"  Why,  that's  just  it,"  Cyril  answered,  a  little  cicstfallen, 
and  feeling  he  had  done  quite  a  wicked  thirg  in  venturing  to 
suggest  that  his  companion  should  have  every  c'lance  for  her 
own  life.  "  I've  got  no  mother,  you  see;  no  sisters,  no  family 
Nobody  on  earth  would  ever  be  one  penny  the  worse  if  /were 
to  die,  except  my  twin  brother;  he's  the  only  relation  I  ever 
had  in  my  life;  and  even  Ae,  I  dare  say,  would  very  soon  get 
over  it.  Whereas  ^y^??^  " — he  paused,  and  glanced  at  her  com- 
passionately— "  there  are  probably  many  to  whom  the  loss 
would  be  a  very  serious  one.  If  I  could  do  anything  to  save 
you — "  He  broke  off  suddenly,  for  Eima  looked  up  at  him 
once  more  with  a  little  burst  of  despair. 

"  If  you  talk  like  that,"  she  cried,  with  a  familiarity  that 
comes  of  association  in  a  very  great  danger,  "  I  don't  know 
what  I  shall  do;  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  say  to  you.  Why, 
I  couldn't  bear  to  be  left  alone  here  to  die  by  myse'f.  If  only 
for  my  sake,  now  we're  boxed  up  here  together,  I  think  you 
ought  to  wait  and  do  the  best  you  can  for  yourself." 

"  Very  well,"  Cyril  answered  once  more,  in  a  most  obedient 
tone.  "  If  you  wish  me  to  live  to  keep  you  company  in  the 
tunnel,  I'll  live  while  I  may.  You  have  only  to  say  what  you 
wish;  I'm  here  to  wait  upon  you." 

In  any  other  circumstances,  such  a  phrase  would  have  been 
a  mere  piece  of  conversational  politeness.  At  that  critical 
moment,  Elma  knew  it  for  just  what  it  was — a  simple  expres- 
sion of  his  real  feeling. 


CHAPTER  III. 

CYRIL   WARING'S   BROTHER, 


It  was  nine  o'clock  that  self-same  night,  and  two  men  sat 
together  in  a  comfortable  sitting-room  under  the  gabled  roofs 
of  Staple  Inn,  Holborn.    It  was  as  cozy  a  nook  as  any  to  be 


■3  ■ 


"'i*i«  1111 


■i-il 


WHAT  S  BRED  IN   THE   BONE. 


19 


found  within  the  four-mile  radius,  and  artistic  withal  in  its 
furniture  and  decorations. 

In  the  biggest  arm-chair  by  the  empty  grate,  a  young  man 
with  a  flute  paused  for  a  moment,  irresolute.  He  was  a  hand- 
some young  man,  with  expressive  eyes  and  a  neatly  cut  brown 
beard — for  all  the  world  like  Cyril  Waring's.  Indeed,  if  Elma 
Clifford  could  that  moment  have  been  transported  from  her 
gloomy  prison  in  the  Lavington  tunnel  to  that  cozy  room  at 
Staple  Inn,  Holborn,  she  would  have  started  with  surprise  to 
find  the  young  man  who  sat  in  the  arm-chair  was  to  all  outer 
appearance  the  self-same  person  as  the  painter  she  had  just 
left  at  the  scene  of  the  accident;  for  the  two  Warings  were 
truly  "  as  like  as  two  peas  " — a  photograph  of  one  might  almost 
have  done  duty  for  the  photograph  of  the  other. 

The  other  occupant  of  the  room,  who  leaned  carelessly 
against  the  mantle-shelf,  was  taller  and  older;  though  he,  too, 
was  handsome,  but  with  the  somewhat  cynical  and  unprepos- 
sessing handsomeness  of  a  man  of  the  world.  His  forehead 
was  high;  his  lips  were  thin;  his  nose  inclined  toward  the 
Roman  pattern;  his  black  mustache  was  carefully  curled  and 
twisted  at  the  extremities.  Moreover,  he  was  musical;  for  he 
held  in  one  hand  the  bow  of  a  violin,  having  just  laid  down 
the  instrument  ifelf  on  the  sofa  after  a  plaintive  duet  with 
Guy  Waring. 

"Seen  this  evening's  paper,  by  the  way,  Guy?"  he  asked, 
after  a    pause 
seductiveness, 
but  forgot  to 

mine.  Been  an  accident  this  morning,  I  see,  on  the  Great 
Southern  line.  Somewhere  down  Cyril's  way,  too;  he's  paint- 
ing near  Chetwood;  wonder  whether  he  could  possibly,  by 
any  chance,  have  been  in  it? " 

He  drew  the  paper  careles.sly  from  his  pocket  as  he  spoke, 
and  handed  it  with  a  graceful  air  of  inborn  courtesy  to  his 
younger  companion.  Everything  that  Montague  Nevitt  did, 
indeed,  was  naturally  graceful  and  courteous. 

Guy  Waring  took  the  printed  sheet  from  his  hands  without 
attaching  much  importance  to  his  words,  and  glanced  over  it 
lightly. 

"At  ten  o'clock  this  morning,"  the  telegram  said,  "a  singu- 
lar catastrophe  occurred  in  a  portion  of  the  Lavington  tunnel 
on  the  Great  Southern  Railway.    As  the  9:15  way-train  from 


m  a  voice  that  was  all  honeyed  charm  and 

"i  brought  the  S/.  fames'  Gazette  for  you, 

give  you  it;  I  was  so  full  of  this  new  piece  of 


\i     ill ! 

i 


i* 


i  I 


20 


WHAT  S   BRED  IN   THE   BONE. 


Tilgate  Junction  to  Guildford  was  passing  through,  a  seg- 
ment of  the  roof  of  the  tunnel  collapsed,  under  pressure  of 
the  dislocated  rock  on  top,  and  bore  down  with  enormous 
weight  upon  the  carriages  beneath  it.  The  engine,  tender, 
and  four  front  wagons  escaped  unhurt;  but  the  two  hindmost, 
it  is  feared,  were  crushed  by  the  falling  mass  of  earth.  It  is 
not  yet  known  how  many  passengers,  if  any,  may  have  been 
occupying  the  wrecked  compartments;  but  every  effort  is  now 
being  made  to  dig  out  the  debris." 

Guy  read  the  paragraph  through  unmoved,  to  the  outer  eye, 
though  with  a  whitening  face,  and  then  took  up  the  dog-eared 
"  Bradshaw  "  that  lay  close  by  upon  the  little  oak  writing- 
table.  His  hand  trembled.  One  glance  at  the  map,  however, 
set  his  mind  at  rest. 

"  I  thought  so,''  he  said,  quietly.  "  Cyril  wouldn't  be  there. 
It's  beyond  his  beat.  Lavington's  the  fourth  station  this  way 
on  the  up-line  from  Chetwood.  Cyril's  stopping  at  Tilgate 
town,  you  know — I  heard  from  him  on  Saturday — and  the  bit 
he's  now  working  at's  in  Chetwood  forest.  He  couldn't  get 
lodgings  at  Chetwood  itself,  so  he's  put  up  for  the  present  at 
the  White  Lion,  at  Tilgate,  and  runs  over  by  train  every  day 
to  Warnworth.  It's  three  stations  away — four  off  Lavington. 
He'd  have  been  daubing  for  an  hour  in  the  wood  by  that 
time." 

"  Well,  I  didn't  attach  any  great  importance  to  it  myself," 
Nevitt  went  on,  unconcerned.  "  I  thought  most  likely  Cyril 
wouldn't  be  there.  But  still  I  felt  you'd  like,  at  any  rate,  to 
know  about  it." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  Guy  answered,  still  scanning  the  map  in 
"  Bradshaw"  close.  "  He  couldn't  have  been  there;  but  one 
likes  to  know.  I  think,  indeed,  to  make  sure,  I'll  telegraph  to 
Tilgate.  Naturally,  when  a  man's  got  only  one  relation  in  the 
whole  wide  world — without  being  a  sentimentalist — that  one 
relation  means  a  good  deal  in  life  to  him.  And  Cyril  and  I 
are  more  to  one  another,  of  course,  than  most  ordinary 
brothers."  He  bit  his  thumb.  "Still,  I  can't  imagine  how  he 
could  possibly  be  there,"  he  went  on,  glancing  at  "  Bradshaw  " 
once  more.  "  You  see,  if  he  went  to  work,  he'd  have  got  out 
at  Warnworth;  and  if  he  meant  to  come  to  town  to  consult 
his  dentist,  he'd  have  taken  the  9:30  express  straight  through 
from  Tilgate,  which  gets  up  to  London  twenty-five  minutes 
earlier," 


If  ^ 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


21 


**Well,  but  why  to  consult  his  dentist  in  particular?" 
Nevitt  asked  with  a  smile.  He  had  very  white  teeth,  and  he 
smiled  accordingly,  perhaps  a  little  oftener  than  was  quite 
inevitable.  "  You  Warings  are  so  absolute.  I  never  knew  any 
such  fellows  in  my  life  as  you  are.  You  decide  things  so 
beforehand.  Why  mightn't  he  have  been  coming  up  to  town, 
for  example,  to  see  a  friend,  or  get  himself  fresh  colors? " 

"Oh,  I  said  'to  consult  his  dentist,'  "  Guy  answered  in  the 
most  matter-of-fact  voice  on  earth,  suppressing  a  tremor, 
**  because  you  know  I've  had  toothache  off  and  on  myself,  one 
day  with  another,  for  the  whole  last  fortnight.  And  it's  a 
tooth  that  never  ached  with  either  of  us  before — this  one  you 
see," — he  lifted  his  lip  with  hisforefin^^ir — "the  second  on  the 
left  after  the  one  we've  lost.  If  Cyril  was  coming  up  to  town 
at  all,  I'm  pretty  sure  it'd  be  his  tooth  he  was  coming  up  to  see 
about.     I  went  to  Eskell  about  mine  myself  last  Wednesday." 

The  elder  man  seated  himself  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
with  his  violin  in  his  lap;  then  he  surveyed  his  friend  long 
and  curiously. 

"  It  must  be  awfully  odd,  Guy,"  he  said  at  last,  after  a  good 
hard  stare,  "  to  lead  such  a  queer  sort  of  duplicate  life  as  Cyril 
and  you  do!  Just  fancy  being  the  counterfoil  to  some  other 
man's  check!  Just  fancy  being  bound  to  do,  and  think,  and 
speak,  and  wish  as  he  does!  Just  fancy  having  to  get  a  tooth- 
ache in  the  very  same  tooth,  and  on  the  very  same  day!  Just 
fanc}  having  to  consult  the  identical  dentist  that  he  con- 
sults simultaneously!  It'd  drive  me  mad.  Why,  it's  clean 
rideeklous!  " 

Guy  Waring  looked  up  hastily  from  the  telegraph  form 
he  was  already  filling  in,  and  answered  with   some  warmth: 

"  No,  no;  not  quite  so.  It  isn't  like  that.  You  mistake 
the  situation.  We're  both  checks  equally,  and  neither  is  a 
counterfoil.  Cyril  and  I  depend  for  our  characters,  as  every- 
body else  does,  upon  our  father  and  mother  and  our  remoter 
progenitors.  Only  being  twins,  and  twins  cast  in  very  much 
the  same  sort  of  mold,  we're  naturally  the  product  of  the 
same  two  parents,  at  the  same  precise  point  in  their  joint  life 
history;  and,  therefore,  we're  practically  all  but  identical." 

As  he  rose  from  his  desk,  with  the  telegram  in  his  hand,  the 
porter  appeared  at  the  door  with  letters.  Guy  seized  them  at 
once,  with  some  little  impatience.  The  first  was  from  Cyril. 
He  tore  it  open  in  haste,  and  skimmed  it  through  rapidly. 


jf^HWiUlH.!.--  l|(.WI»i"«"«Pll>HI*F|l*JW»U.iiHPHl 


i 


22 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


'V' 


1  J I 


.1 


l{ 


Montague  Nevitt  meanwhile  sat  languid  in  his  chair^  striking 
a  pensive  note  now  and  again  on  his  violin,  with  his  eyes  half 
closed  and  his  lips  parted.  Guy  drew  a  sigh  of  relief  as  he 
skimmed  his  note. 

"Just  what  I  expected,"  he  said,  slowly.  "Cyril  couldn't 
have  been  there.  He  writes  last  night — the  letter's  marked 
*  Delayed  in  transmission;'  no  doubt  by  the  accident — *  I  shall 
come  up  to  town  on  Friday  or  Saturday  morning  to  see  the 
dentist.  One  of  my  teeth  is  troublesome;  I  suppose  you've 
had  the  same;  the  second  on  the  left  from  the  one  we've  lost; 
been  aching  a  fortnight.  I  want  it  stopped.  But  to-morrow 
I  really  can't  leave  work.  I've  got  well  into  the  swing  of  such 
a  lovely  bit  of  fern,  with  Sardanapalus  just  gleaming  like  gold 
in  the  foreground.'  So  that  settles  matters  somewhat.  He 
can't  have  been  there.  Though,  I  think,  even  so,  I'll  just  tele- 
graph for  safety's  sake  and  make  things  certain." 

Nevitt  struck  a  cord  twice  with  a  sweep  of  his  hand,  lis- 
tened to  it  dreamily  for  a  minute  with  far-away  eyes,  and  then 
remarked  once  more,  without  even  looking  up,  "  The  same 
tooth  lost,  he  says!  You  both  had  it  drawn!  And  now 
another  one  aches  in  both  of  you  alike!  How  very  remark- 
able!   How  very,  very  curious! " 

"Well,  that  was  queer,"  Guy  replied,  relaxing  into  a  smile; 
"queer  even  for  us;  I  won't  deny  it;  for  it  happened  this 
way.  I  was  over  in  Brussels  at  the  time,  as  correspondent  for 
the  Sphere  2X  the  International  Workmen's  Congress,  and  Cyril 
was  away  by  himself  just  then  on  his  holiday  in  the  Orkneys. 
We  both  got  toothache  in  the  self-same  tooth  on  the  self-same 
night;  and  we  both  lay  awake  for  hours  in  misery.  Early  in 
the  morning  we  each  of  us  got  up — five  hundred  miles  away 
from  one  another,  remember — and  as  soon  as  we  were  dressed, 
/  went  into  a  dentist's  in  the  Montagne  de  la  Cour,  and  Cyril 
to  a  local  doctor's  at  Larwick;  and  we  each  of  us  had  it  out, 
instanter.  The  dentists  both  declared  they  could  save  them 
if  we  wished;  but  we  each  preferred  the  loss  of  a  tooth  to 
another  such  night  of  abject  misery." 

Nevitt  stroked  his  mustache  with  a  reflective  air.  This 
was  almost  miraculous.  "Well,  I  should  think,"  he  said  at 
last,  after  close  reflection,  "  where  such  sympathy  as  that  exists 
between  two  brothers,  if  Cyril  had  really  been  hurt  in  this 
accident,  you  must  surely  in  some  way  have  been  dimly  con- 
scious of  it." 


•MiMa 


M&Sm 


WHAT  S   BRED    TN   THE   BONE. 


23 


Guy  Waring,  standing  there,  telegram  in  hand,  looked  down 
at  his  companion  with  a  somewhat  contemptuous  smile. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,"  he  answered,  with  common-sense  confidence; 
for  he  loved  not  mysteries.  "  You  don't  believe  any  nonsense 
of  that  sort,  do  you?  There's  nothing  in  the  least  mystical 
in  the  kind  of  sympathy  that  exists  between  Cyril  and  myself. 
It's  all  purely  physical.  We're  very  like  one  another;  but 
that's  all.  There's  none  of  the  Corsican  Brothers  sort  of 
hocus-pocus  about  us  in  any  way.  The  whole  thing  is  a  simple 
case  of  natural  causation," 

"  Then  you  don't  believe  in  brain-waves?"  Nevitt  suggested, 
with  a  gracefully  appropriate  undulation  of  his  small,  white 
hand. 

Guy  laughed  incredulously, 

"All  rubbish,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  answered;  "all  utter  rub- 
bish. If  any  man  knows,  it's  myself  and  Cyril.  We're  as 
near  one  another  as  any  two  men  on  earth  could  possibly  be; 
but  when  we  want  to  communicate  our  ideas,  each  to  each,  we 
have  to  speak  or  write,  just  like  the  rest  of  you.  Every  man 
is  like  a  clock  wound  up  to  strike  certain  hours.  Accidents 
may  happen,  events  may  intervene,  the  clock  may  get  smashed, 
and  all  may  be  prevented.  But,  bar  accidents,  it'll  strike  all 
right,  under  ordinary  circumstances,  when  the  hour  arrives  for 
it.  Well,  Cyril  and  I,  as  I  always  say,  are  like  two  clocks 
wound  up  at  the  same  time  to  strike  together,  and  we  strike 
with  very  unusual  regularity.  But  that's  the  whole  mystery. 
If  1  get  smashed  by  accident,  there's  no  reason  on  earth  why 
Cyril  shouldn't  run  on  for  years  yet  as  usual;  and  if  Cyril  got 
smashed,  there's  no  reason  on  earth  why  I  should  ever  know 
anything  about  it    xcept  from  the  newspapers." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

INSIDE   THE   TUNNEL. 

And,  indeed,  if  brain-waves  had  been  in  question  at  all,  they 
ought,  without  a  doubt,  to  have  imormed  Guy  Waring  that  at 
the  very  moment  when  he  was  going  out  to  send  off  his  tele- 
gram, his  brother  Cyril  was  sitting  disconsolate,  with  dark-blue 
lips  and  swollen  eyelids,  on  the  foot-board  of  the  railway  car- 
riage in  Lavington  tunnel.    Cyril  was  worn  out  with  digging 


94 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN   THE  BONE. 


(I 


■1 


'i 


il 


by  this  time,  for  he  had  done  his  best  once  more  to  clear  away 
the  sand  toward  the  front  of  the  train,  in  the  vague  hope  that 
he  might  succeed  in  letting  in  a  little  more  air  to  their  narrow 
prison  through  the  chinks  and  interstices  of  the  fallen  sand- 
stone. Besides,  a  man  in  an  emergency  must  do  something,  if 
only  to  justify  his  claim  to  manliness — especially  when  a  lady 
is  looking  on  at  his  efforts. 

So  Cyril  Waring  had  toiled  and  moiled  in  that  deadly  atmos- 
phere for  some  hours  in  vain,  and  now  sat,  wearied  out  and 
faint  from  foul  vapors,  by  Elma's  side  on  the  damp,  cold  foot- 
board. By  this  time  the  air  had  almost  failed  them.  They 
gasped  for  breath;  their  heads  swam  vaguely.  A  terrible 
weight  seemed  to  oppress  their  bosoms.  Even  the  lamps  in 
the  carriages  flickered  low  and  burned  blue.  The  atmosphere 
of  the  tunnel,  loaded  from  the  very  beginning  with  sulphurous 
smoke,  was  now  all  but  exhausted.  Death  stared  them  in  the 
face  without  hope  of  respite — a  ghastly,  slow  death  by  gradual 
stifling. 

"  You  must  take  a  little  water,"  Elma  murmured,  pouring  out 
the  last  few  drops  for  him  into  the  tin  cup,  for  Cyril  had 
brought  a  small  bottleful  that  morning  for  his  painting,  as  well 
as  a  packet  of  sandwiches  for  lunch.  "  You're  dreadfully  tired. 
I  can  see  your  lips  are  parched  and  dry  with  digging." 

She  was  deathly  pale  herself,  and  her  own  eyes  were  livid, 
for  by  this  time  she  had  fairly  given  up  all  hope  of  rescue,  and, 
besides,  the  air  in  the  tunnel  was  so  foul  and  stupefying  she 
could  hardly  speak;  indeed,  her  tongue  clung  to  her  palate. 
But  she  poured  out  the  last  few  drops  into  the  cup  for  Cyril 
and  held  them  up  imploringly,  with  a  gesture  of  supplication. 
These  two  were  no  strangers  to  one  another  now.  They  had 
begun  to  know  each  other  well  in  those  twelve  long  hours  of 
deadly  peril  shared  in  common. 

Cyril  waved  the  cup  aside  with  a  firm  air  of  dissent. 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  faintly;  "you  must  drink  it  yourself. 
Your  need  is  greater  far  than  mine." 

Elma  tried  to  put  it  away  in  turn,  but  Cyril  would  not  allow 
her;  so  she  moistened  her  mouth  with  those  scanty  last  drops, 
and  turned  toward  him  gratefully. 

"  There's  no  hope  left  now,"  she  said,  in  a  very  resigned 
voice.  "  We  must  make  up  our  minds  to  die  where  we  stand. 
But  I  thank  you,  oh,  I  thank  you  so  much,  so  earnestly." 

Cyril,  for  his  part,  could  hardly  find  breath  to  speak. 


i 


M 


MMWlMl 


■ASSm 


I 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


25 


"Thank  you,"  he  gasped  out^  in  one  last,  despairing:  effort. 
"Things  looic  very  black;  but  while  there's  life,  there's  hope. 
They  may  even  still,  perhaps,  come  up  with  us." 

As  he  spoke,  a  sound  broke  unexpectedly  on  the  silence  of 
their  prison.  A  dull  thud  seemed  to  make  itself  faintly  heard 
from  beyond  the  thick  wall  of  sand  that  cut  them  off  from  the 
daylight.  Cyril  stared  with  surprise.  It  was .  a  noise  like  a 
pickax.  Stooping  hastily  down,  he  laid  his  ear  against  the 
rail  beside  the  shattered  carriage. 

"They're  digging!  "  he  cried,  earnestly,  finding  words  in  his 
joy.  "They're  digging  to  reach  us!  I  can  hear  them!  I  can 
hear  them!" 

Elma  glanced  up  at  him  with  a  certain  tinge  of  half-incred- 
ulous surprise. 

"  Yes,  they're  digging,  of  course,"  she  said,  quickly.  "  I 
knew  they'd  dig  for  us,  naturally,  as  soon  as  they  missed  us. 
But  how  far  off  are  they  yet?  That's  the  real  question.  Will 
they  reach  us  in  time?    Are  they  near,  or  distant? " 

Cyril  knelt  down  on  the  ground  as  before,  in  an  agony  of 
suspense,  and  struck  the  rail  three  times  distinctly  with  his 
walking-stick.  Then  he  put  his  ear  to  it  and  listened,  and 
waited.  In  less  than  half  a  minute  three  answering  knocks 
rang,  dim  but  unmistakable,  along  the  buried  rail.  He  could 
even  feel  the  vibration  on  the  iron  with  his  face. 

"They  hear  us!  they  hear  us!"  he  cried  once  more,  in  a 
tremor  of  excitement.  "  I  don't  think  they're  far  off.  They're 
coming  rapidly  toward  us." 

At  the  words  Elma  rose  from  her  seat,  still  paler  than  ever, 
but  strangely  resolute,  and  took  the  stick  from  his  hand  with 
a  gesture  of  despair.  She  was  almost  stifled.  But  she  raised 
it  with  method.  Knocking  the  rail  twice,  she  bent  down  her 
head  and  listened  in  turn.  Once  more  two  answering  knocks 
rang  sharp  along  the  connecting  line  of  metal.  Elma  shook 
her  head  ominously. 

"  No,  no,  they're  a  very  long  way  off  still,"  she  murmured,  in 
a  faltering  tone.  "  I  can  hear  it  quite  well.  They  can  never 
reach  us ! " 

She  seated  herself  on  a  fragment  of  the  broken  car,  and 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands  once  more  in  silence.  Her  heart 
was  full.  Her  head  was  very  heavy.  She  gasped  and  strug- 
gled. Then  a  sudden  intuition  seized  her,  after  her  kind.  If 
the  rail  could  carry  the  sound  of  a  tap,  surely  it  might  carry 


d6 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


IV    I 


1 

fh). 


pi 

II 


the  human  voice  as  well.  Inspired  with  the  idea,  she  rose 
again  and  leant  forward. 

A  second  time  she  knocked  two  quick  little  taps,  ringing 
sharp  on  the  rail,  as  if  to  bespeak  attention;  then,  putting  her 
mouth  close  to  the  metals,  she  shouted  aloud  along  them  with 
all  the  voice  that  was  left  her: 

"  Halloo !  there,  do  you  hear  ?  Come  soon,  come  fast ! 
We're  alive,  but  choking  !  " 

Quick  as  lightning  an  answer  rang  back,  as  if  by  magic, 
along  the  conducting  line  of  the  rail — a  strange,  unexpected 
answer. 

"  Break  the  pipe  of  the  wires,"  it  said,  and  then  subsided 
instantly. 

Cyril,  who  was  leaning  down  at  her  side  at  the  moment  with 
his  ear  to  the  rail,  couldn't  make  out  one  word  of  it;  but 
Elma's  sharp  senses,  now  quickened  by  the  crisis,  were  acute 
as  an  Oriental's  and  keen  as  a  beagle's. 

"*  Break  the  pipe  of  the  wires,' they  say,"  she  exclaimed, 
starting  back  and  pondering.  "What  on  earth  can  they  mean 
by  that?  What  on  earth  can  they  be  driving  at?  'Break 
the  pipe  of  the  wir^s.'     I  don't  understand  them." 

Hardly  had  she  spoken,  when  another  sharp  tap  resounded 
still  more  clearly  along  the  rail  at  her  feet.  She  bent  down 
her  head  once  more,  and  laid  her  eager  ear  beside  it  in  terrible 
suspense.  A  rough  man's  voice — a  navvy's,  no  doubt  or  a 
fireman's — came  speeding  along  the  metal;  and  it  said  in 
thick  accents: — 

"  Do  you  hear  what  I  say  ?  If  you  want  to  breathe  freer, 
break  the  pipe  of  the  wires,  and  you'll  get  fresh  air  from  out- 
side right  through  it." 

Cyril  this  time  had  caught  the  words,  and  jumped  up  with 
a  sudden  air  of  profound  conviction.  It  was  very  dark,  and 
the  'amps  were  going  out,  but  he  took  his  fusee-box  from  his 
pocket  and  struck  a  light  hastily.  Sure  enough,  on  the  left- 
hand  side  of  the  tunnel,  half  buried  in  rubbish,  an  earthenware 
pipe  ran  along  by  the  edge  near  the  wall  of  the  archway. 
Cyril  raised  his  foot  and  brought  his  heel  down  upon  it 
sharply  with  all  the  strength  and  force  he  had  still  left  in  him. 
The  pipe  broke  short,  and  Cyril  saw  within  it  a  number  of 
telegraph  wires  for  the  railway  service.  The  tube  communi- 
cated directly  with  the  air  outside.  They  were  saved!  They 
were  saved!  Air  would  come  through  the  pipe!  He  saw  it 
all  now !    He  dimly  understood  it ! 


.«iii.  ii»<iwmimi| 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


27 


At  the  self-same  moment,  another  sound  of  breaking  was 
heard  more  distinctly  at  the  opposite  end,  some  thirty  or  forty 
feet  off  through  the  tunnel.  Then  a  voice  rang  far  clearer, 
as  if  issuing  from  the  tube,  in  short,  sharp  sentences: — 

"  We^ll  pump  you  in  air.  How  many  of  you  are  there  ? 
Are  you  all  alive  ?    Is  any  one  injured  ? " 

Cyril  leant  down  and  shouted  back  in  reply: — 

"We're  two.     Both  alive.     Not  hurt.     But  sick  and  half 
dead  with  stifling.     Send  us  air  as  soon  as  ever  you  can 
And  if  possible  pass  us  a  bottle  of  water." 

Some  minutes  elapsed — three  long,  slow  minutes  of  intense 
anxiety.  Elma,  now  broken  down  with  terror  and  want  of 
oxygen,  fell  half  fainting  forward  toward  the  shattered  tube. 
Cyril  held  her  up  in  his  supporting  arms,  and  watched  the 
pipe  eagerly.  It  seemed  an  age;  but,  after  a  time,  he  became 
conscious  of  a  gust  of  air  blowing  cold  on  his  face.  The  keen 
freshness  revived  him. 

He  looked  about  him  and  drew  a  deep  breath.  Cool  air 
was  streaming  in  through  the  broken  place.  Quick  as 
thought,  he  laid  Elma's  mouth  as  close  as  he  could  lay  it  to 
the  reviving  current.  Her  eyes  were  closed.  After  a  painful 
interval,  she  opened  them  languidly.  Cyril  chafed  her  hands 
with  his,  but  his  chafing  seemed  to  produce  very  litt'e  effect. 
She  lay  motionless  now  with  her  eyelids  half  shut,  and  the 
whites  of  her  eyes  alone  showing  through  them.  The  close, 
foul  air  of  that  damp  and  confined  spot  had  worked  its  worst, 
and  had  almost  asphyxiated  her.  Cyril  began  to  fear  the 
slight  relief  had  arrived  five  minutes  too  late.  And  it  must 
still  in  all  probability  be  some  hours  at  least  before  they  could 
be  actually  disentombed  from  that  living  vault  or  restored  to 
the  open  air  of  heaven. 

As  he  bent  over  her  and  held  his  breath  in  speechless  sus- 
pense, the  voice  called  out  again  more  loudly  than  ever  :  — 

"Look  out  for  the  ball  in  the  tube.  We're  sending  you 
water !  " 

Cyril  watched  the  pipe  closely  and  struck  another  light.  In 
a  mmute,  a  big  glass  marble  came  rattling  through,  with  a 
string  attached  to  it. 

"  Pull  the  string  !  "  the  voice  cried  ;  and  Cyril  pulled  with 
a  will.  Now  and  again,  the  object  attached  to  it  struck 
against  some  projecting  ledge  or  angle  where  the  pipes  over- 
lapped.   But  at  last,  with  a  little  humoring,  it  came  through 


w 


28 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


i! 


]i 


i.f 


I  ' 


in  safety.  At  the  end  was  a  large  india-rubber  bottle,  full  of 
fresh  water,  and  a  flask  of  brandy.  The  young  man  seized 
them  both  with  delfght  and  avidity,  and  bathed  Elma's  tem- 
ples over  and  over  again  with  the  refreshing  spirit.  Then  he 
poured  a  little  into  the  cup,  and  filling  it  up  with  water,  held 
it  to  her  lips  with  all  a  woman's  tenderness.  Elma  gulped 
the  draught  down  unconsciously,  and  opened  her  eyes  at 
once.  For  a  moment  she  stared  about  her  with  a  wild  stare 
of  surprise. 

Then,  of  a  sudden,  she  recollected  where  she  was,  and  why, 
and  seizing  Cyril's  hand  pressed  it  long  and  eagerly. 

"  If  only  we  can  hold  out  for  three  hours  more,"  she  cried, 
with  fresh  hope  returning,  "  I'm  sure  they'll  reach  us ;  Fm 
sure  they'll  reach  us !  " 


CHAPTER   V. 


n 


;'i^ 


GRATITUDE. 

"  There  were  only  two  of  you,  then,  in  the  last  carriage  ? " 
Guy  asked  with  deep  interest,  the  very  next  morning,  as 
Cyril,  none  the  worse  for  his  long  imprisonment,  sat  quietly 
in  their  joint  chambers  at  Staple  Inn,  recounting  the  previous 
day's  adventures. 

"Yes.  Only  two  of  us.  It  was  awfully  fortunate.  And 
the  carriage  that  was  smashed  had  nobody  at  all,  except  in 
the  first  compartment,  which  escaped  being  buried.  So  there 
were  no  lives  lost,  by  a  miracle,  you  may  say.  But  several  of 
the  people  in  the  front  part  of  the  train  got  terribly  shaken." 

"  And  you  and  the  other  man  were  shut  up  in  the  tunnel 
there  for  fifteen  hours  at  a  stretch  ? "  Guy  went  on  reflec- 
tively. 

"At  least  fifteen  hours,''  Cyril  echoed,  without  attempting 
to  correct  the  slight  error  of  sex,  for  no  man,  he  thought,  is 
bound  to  criminate  himself,  even  in  a  flirtation.  "  It  was  two 
in  the  morning  before  they  dug  us  quite  out.  And  my  com- 
panion by  that  time  was  more  dead  than  alive,  I  can  tell  you, 
with  watching  and  terror." 

"Was  he,  poor  fellow?"  Guy  murmured,  with  a  sympa- 
thetic face ;  for  Cyril  had  always  alluded  casually  to  this  fel- 
low-traveler  in  such  general  terms  that  Guy  was  as  yet 


"':'ja4t..'»- 


^^sg^^ 


'mmmiim  ■wifWP 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


39 


M 


I 


unaware  there  was  a  lady  in  the  case.  ''And  is  he  all  right 
again  now,  do  you  know  ?  Have  you  heard  anything  more 
about  him  ? " 

But  before  Cyril  could  answer  there  came  a  knock  at  the 
door,  and  the  next  moment  Mr.  Montague  Nevitt,  without  his 
violin,  entered  the  room  in  some  haste,  all  agog  with  excite- 
ment. His  face  was  eager  and  his  manner  cordial.  It  was 
clear  he  was  full  of  some  important  tidings. 

"Why,  Cyril,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  cried,  grasping  the 
painter's  hand  with  much  demonstration  of  friendly  warmth, 
and  wringing  it  hard  two  or  three  times  over  ;  "  how  delighted  I 
am  to  see  you  restored  to  us  alive  and  well  once  more.  This 
is  really  too  happy.  What  a  marvelous  escape  !  And  what 
a  romantic  story !  All  the  clubs  are  buzzing  with  it  A 
charming  girl !  You'll  have  to  marry  her  of  course,  that's 
the  necessary  climax.  You  and  the  young  lady  are  the 
staple  of  news,  I  see,  in  very  big  print,  in  all  the  evening 
papers ! " 

Guy  drew  back  at  the  words  with  a  little  start  of  surprise. 
"Young  lady  !  "  he  cried,  aghast.  "A  charming  girl,  Nevitt ! 
Then  the  person  who  was  shut  up  with  you  for  fifteen  hours 
in  the  tunnel,  was  a  girl  ? " 

Cyril's  handsome  face  flushed  slightly  before  his  brother's 
scrutinizing  gaze  ;  but  he  answered  with  a  certain  little  ill- 
concealed  embarrassment :  — 

"Oh,  I  didn't  say  so,  didn't  I?  Well,  she  was  a  girl  then, 
of  course  ;  a  certain  Miss  Clififord.  She  got  in  at  Chetwood. 
Her  people  live  some  where  down  there  near  Tilgate.  At 
least,  so  I  gathered  from  what  she  told  me." 

Nevitt  stared  hard  at  the  painter's  eyes,  which  tried  (with- 
out success)  to  look  unconscious. 

"A  romance !  "  he  said,  slowly,  scanning  his  man  with  deep 
interest.  "A  romance,  I  can  see.  Young,  rich,  and  beautiful. 
My  dear  Cyril,  I  only  wish  I'd  had  half  your  luck.  What  a 
splendid  chance,  and  what  a  magnificent  introduction  !  Beauty 
in  distress  !  A  lady  in  trouble  !  You  console  her  alone  in  a 
tunnel  for  fifteen  hours  by  yourself  at  a  stretch.  Heavens, 
what  a  Ute-<X'tete  /  Did  British  propriety  ever  before  allow  a 
man  such  a  glorious  opportunity  for  chivalrous  devotion  to  a 
lady  of  family,  face,  and  fortune  ? " 

"  Was  she  pretty  ?"  Guy  asked,  coming  down  at  once  to  a 
more  realistic  platform. 


80 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


I 


li 


ll 


I 


Cyril  hesitated  a  moment.  "  Well,  yes,"  he  answered,  some- 
what curtly,  after  a  short  pause.  "  She's  distinctly  good-look- 
ing." And  he  shut  his  mouth  sharp.  But  he  had  said  quite 
enough. 

When  a  man  says  that  of  a  girl,  and  nothing  more,  in  an 
unconcerned  voice,  as  if  it  didn't  matter  twopence  to  him,  you 
may  be  perfectly  sure  in  your  own  mind  he's  very  deeply  and 
.seriously  smitten. 

"  And  young  ? "     Guy  continued. 

"  I  should  say  about  twenty." 

"  And  rich  beyond  the  utmost  dreams  of  avarice  ? "  Mon- 
tague Nevitt  put  in,  with  a  faintly  synical  smile. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that," Cyril  answered, truthfully. 
"  I  haven't  the  least  idea  who  she  is,  even.  She  and  I  had 
other  things  to  think  about,  you  may  be  sure,  boxed  up  there 
so  long  in  that  narrow  space,  and  choking  for  want  of  air,  than 
minute  investigations  into  one  another's  pedigrees." 

"  We've  got  no  pedigree,"  Guy  interposed,  with  a  bitter  smile; 
"  so  the  less  she  investigated  about  that  the  better." 

"But  she  has,  I  expect,"  Nevitt  put  in,  hastily;  "and  if  I 
were  you,  Cyril,  I'd  hunt  her  up  forthwith,  while  the  iron's 
hot,  and  find  out  all  there  is  to  find  out  about  her.  Clifford 
—  Clifford  ?  I  wonder  whether  by  any  chance  she's  one  of 
the  Devonshire  Cliffords,  now  ?  for  if  so,  she  might  really  be 
worth  a  man's  serious  attention.  They're  very  good  business. 
They  bank  at  our  place;  and  they're  by  no  means  paupers." 
For  Nevitt  was  a  clerk  in  the  well-known  banking  firm  of 
Drummond,  Coutts  &  Barclay,  Limited;  and  being  a  man 
who  didn't  mean,  as  he  himself  said,  "  to  throw  himself  away 
on  any  girl  for  nothing,"  he  kept  a  sharp  lookout  on  the  cur- 
rent account  of  every  wealthy  client  with  an  only  daughter. 

Ten  minutes  later,  as  the  talk  ran  on,  some  further  light 
was  unexpectedly  thrown  upon  this  interesting  topic  by  the 
entrance  of  the  peter  with  a  letter  for  Cyril.  The  painter 
tore  it  open,  and  glanced  over  it,  as  Nevitt  observed,  with  evi- 
dent eagerness.  It  was  short  and  curt,  but  in  its  own  way 
courteous. 

"  *  Mr.  Reginald  Clifford,  C.  M.  G.,  desires  to  thank  Mr.  Cyril 
Waring  for  his  kindness  and  consideration  to  Miss  Clifford 
during  her  temporary  incarceration  — ' 

"  Incarceration's  good,  isn't  it  ?  How  much  does  he  charge 
a  thousand  for  that  sort,  I  wonder  ? — 


IHIili 


WHATS  BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


81 


"*  During  her  temporary  incirceration  in  the  Lavington 
tunnel  yesterday.  Mrs.  and  Miss  Clifford  wish  also  to  ex- 
press at  the  same  time  their  deep  gratitude  to  Mr.  Waring  for 
his  friendly  efforts,  and  trust  he  has  experienced  no  further  ill 
effects  from  the  unfortunate  accident  to  which  he  was  subjected. 

"  *  Craighton,  Tilgate,  Thursday  morning.' 

"  She  might  have  written  herself,"  Cyril  murmured,  half 
aloud.  He  was  evidently  disappointed  at  this  very  short 
measure  of  correspondence  on  the  subject. 

But  Montague  Nevitt  took  a  more  cheerful  view.  •'  Oh, 
Reginald  Clifford  of  Craighton  ! "  he  cried,  with  a  smile,  his 
invariable  smile.  "  I  know  all  about  him.  He's  a  friend  of 
Colonel  Kelmscott's  down  at  Tilgate  Park.  C.  M.  G.,  indeed  ! 
What  a  ridiculous  old  peacock.  He  was  administrator  of  St. 
Kitts  once  upon  a  time,  1  believe,  or  was  it  Nevis,  or  Antigua? 
I  don't  quite  recollect,  I'm  afraid;  but,  anyhow,  some  comical 
little  speck  of  a  sugary,  niggery  West  Indian  Island;  and  he 
v/as  made  a  Companion  of  St.  Michael  and  St.  George  when 
his  term  was  up,  just  to  keep  him  quiet,  don't  you  know,  for 
he  wanted  a  knighthood,  and  to  shelve  him  from  being 
appointed  to  a  first-class  post  like  Barbadoes  or  Trinidad.  If 
it's  Elma  Clifford  you  were  shut  up  with  in  the  tunnel,  Cyril, 
you  might  do  worse,  there's  no  doubt,  and  you  might  do  bet- 
ter. She's  an  only  daughter,  and  there's  a  little  money  at  the 
back  of  the  family,  I  expect;  but  I  fancy  the  Companion  of 
the  Fighting  Saints  lives  mainly  on  his  pension,  which,  of 
Coviise,  is  purely  personal,  and  so  dies  with  him." 

Cyril  folded  up  the  note  without  noticing  Nevitt's  words 
and  put  it  in  his  pocket,  somewhat  carefully  and  obtrusively. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  in  a  very  quiet  tone ;  "  I  didn't  ask  you 
about  Miss  Clifford's  fortune.  When  I  want  information  on 
that  point  I'll  apply  for  it  plainly.  But  meanwhile  I  don't 
think  any  lady's  name  should  be  dragged  into  conversation 
and  bandied  about  like  that,  by  an  absolute  stranger." 

"  Oh,  now,  you  needn't  be  huffy,"  Nevitt  answered,  with  a 
still  sweeter  smile,  showing  all  those  pearly  teeth  of  his  to  the 
greatest  advantage.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  put  your  back  up; 
and  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do  for  you,  I'll  heap  coals  of  fire  on 
your  head,  you  ungrateful  man.  I'll  return  good  for  evil. 
You  shall  have  an  invitation  to  Mrs.  Holker's  garden  party  on 
Saturday  week  at  Chetwood  Court,  and  there  you'll  be  almost 
sure  to  meet  the  beautiful  stranger." 


% 


J< 


lilt 


what's  bred  in  the  bonb. 


But  at  that  very  moment,  at  Craighton,  Tilgate,  Mr.  Regi- 
nald Clifford,  C.  M.  G.,  a  stiff  little  withered-up  official  Briton, 
hf.lf-mummified  by  long  exposure  to  tropical  suns,  was  sitting 
in  iiis  drawing-room  with  Mrs.  Clifford,  his  wife,  and  discussing 
— what  subject  of  all  others  on  earth  but  the  personality  of 
Cyril  Waring  ? 

"  Well,  it  was  an  awkward  situation  for  Elma,  of  course,  I 
admit,"  he  was  chirping  out  cheerfully,  with  his  back  turned 
by  pure  force  of  habit  to  the  empty  grate,  and  his  hands 
crossed  behind  him.  "I  don't  deny  it  was  an  awkward  situ- 
ation. Still,  there's  no  harm  done,  I  hope  and  trust.  Elma's 
happily  not  a  fanciful  or  foolishly  susceptible  sort  of  girl.  S!:? 
sees  it's  a  case  for  mere  ordinary  gratitude.  And  gratitude, 
in  my  opinion,  toward  a  person  in  his  position,  is  sufficiently 
expressed  once  for  all — by  letter.  There's  no  reason  on  earth 
she  should  ever  again  see  or  hear  any  more  of  him." 

"  But  girls  are  so  romantic,"  Mrs.  Clifford  put  in,  doubtfully, 
with  an  anxious  air.  She  herself  was  by  no  means  romantic 
to  look  at,  being,  indeed,  a  person  of  a  certain  age,  with  a 
plump,  matronly  figure,  and  very  staid  of  countenance;  yet 
there  was  something  in  her  eye,  for  all  that,  that  recalled  at 
times  the  vivid  keenness  of  Elma's,  and  her  cheek  had  once 
been  as  delicate  and  creamy  a  brown  as  her  pretty  daughter's. 
"  Girls  are  so  romantic,"  Mrs.  Clifford  repeated  once  more,  in 
a  dreamy  way,  "  and  she  was  evidently  impressed  by  him." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  I  made  inquiries  at  once  about  these  two 
young  men,  anyhow,"  the  Companion  of  St.  Michael  and  St. 
George  responded,  with  fervor,  clasping  his  wizened  little 
hands  contentedly  over  his  narrow  waistcoat.  "  It's  a  pre- 
cious odd  story,  and  a  doubtful  story,  and  not  at  all  the  sort 
of  story  one  likes  one's  girl  to  be  any  way  mixed  up  with. 
For  my  part,  I  shall  give  them  a  very  wide  berth  indeed  in 
future;  and  there's  no  reason  why  Elma  should  ever  knock  up 
af'-'inst  them." 

"  Who  told  you  they  were  nobodies  ? "  Mrs.  Clifford  in- 
quired, drawing  a  wistful  sigh. 

"  Oh,  Tom  Clark  was  at  school  with  them,"  the  ex-adminis- 
trator continued,  with  a  very  cunning  air,  "  and  he  knows  all 
about  them — has  heard  the  whole  circumstances.  Very  odd, 
very  odd;  never  met  anything  so  queer  in  all  my  life;  most 
mysterious  and  uncanny.  They  never  had  a  father;  they 
never  had  a  mother;  they  never  had  anybody  on  earth  they 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


33 


C'-. 


iinis- 
vs  all 
odd, 
most 
they 
they 


could  call  their  own;  they  dropped  from  the  clouds,  as  it  were, 
one  rainy  day,  without  a  friend  in  the  world,  plump  down  into 
the  Charterhouse.  There  they  were  well  supplied  with 
money,  and  spent  their  holidays  with  a  person  at  Brighton, 
who  wasn't  even  supposed  to  be  their  lawful  guardian.  Looks 
fishy,  doesn't  it.?  Their  names  are -Cyril  and  Guy  Waring — 
and  that's  all  they  know  of  themselves.  They  were  educated 
like  gentlemen  till  they  were  twenty-one  years  old;  and  then 
they  were  turned  loose  upon  the  world,  like  a  pair  of  young 
bears,  with  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds  of  capital  apiece  to 
shift  for  themselves  with.  Uncanny,  very;  I  don't  like  the 
look  of  it.  Not  at  all  the  sort  of  people  an  impressionable 
girl  like  our  Elma  should  ever  be  allowed  to  see  too  much 
of.' 

**  I  don't  think  she  was  very  much  impressed  by  him,"  Mrs. 
Clifford  said,  with  confidence.  "I've  watched  her  to  see,  and 
I  don't  think  she's  in  love  with  him.  But  by  to-morrow, 
Reginald,  I  shall  be  able,  I'm  sure,  to  tell  you  for  certain." 

The  Companion  of  the  Militant  Saints  glanced  rather  un- 
easily across  the  hearth-rug  at  his  wife.  "It's  a  marvelous 
gift,  to  be  sure,  this  intuition  of  yours,  Louisa,"  he  said,  shak- 
ing his  head  sagely,  and  swaying  himself  gently  to  and  fro  on 
tne  stone  curb  of  the  fender.  "  I  frankly  confess,  my  dear,  I 
don't  quite  understand  it.  And  Elma's  got  it,  too  every  bit 
as  bad  as  you  have.  Runs  in  the  family,  I  suppose — runs 
somehow  in  the  family.  After  living  with  you  now  for  twenty- 
two  years — yes,  twenty-two  last  April — in  every  part  of  the 
world  and  every  grade  of  the  service,  I'm  compelled  to  admit 
that  your  intuition  in  these  matters  is  really  remarkable — 
simply  remarkable." 

Mrs.  Clifford  colored  through  her  olive-brown  skin,  exactly 
like  Elma,  and  rose  with  a  somewhat  embarrassed  and  half- 
guilty  air,  avoiding  her  husband's  eyes  as  if  afraid  to  meet 
them. 

Elma  had  gone  to  bed  early,  wearied  out  as  she  was  with 
her  long  agony  in  the  tunnel.  Mrs.  Clifford  crept  up  to  her 
daughter's  room  with  a  silent  tread,  like  some  noiseless  Ori- 
ental, and,  putting  her  ear  to  the  keyhole,  listened  outside  the 
door  in  profound  suspense  for  several  minutes. 

Not  a  sound  from  within;  not  a  gentle  footfall  on  the  car- 
peted floor.  For  a  moment  she  hesitated;  then  she  turned 
the  handle  slowly,  and,  peering  before  her,  peeped  into  the 


I 


34 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


.'  I' 


room.  Thank  heaven  !  no  snake  signs.  Elma  lay  asleep, 
with  one  arm  above  her  head,  as  peacefully  as  a  child,  after 
her  terrible  adventure.  Her  bosom  heaved,  but  slowly  and 
regularly.  The  mother  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  crept  down 
the  stairs  with  a  palpitating  heart  to  the  drawing-room  again. 
"  Reginald,"  she  said,  with  perfect  confidence,  relapsing 
once  more  at  a  bound  into  the  ordinary  every-day  Brit- 
ish matron,  "  there's  no  harm  done,  I'm  sure.  She  doesn't 
think  of  this  young  man  at  all.  You  may  dismiss  him 
from  your  mind  at  once  and  forever.  She's  sleeping  like  a 
baby." 


CHAPTER  VI. 


'4 

i 


TWO   STRANGE   MEETINGS. 

"  Mrs.  Hugh  Holker,  at  home,  Saturday,  May  29th,  3  to 
6.30,  Chetwood  Court;  tennis." 

Cyril  Waring  read  it  out  with  a  little  thrill  of  triumph.  To 
be  sure,  it  was  by  no  means  certain  that  Elma  would  be  there; 
but  still,  Chetwood  Court  was  well  within  range  of  Tilijate 
town,  and  Montague  Nevitt  felt  convinced,  he  said,  the  Holkers 
were  friends  of  the  Cliffords  and  the  Kelmscotts. 

"For  my  part,"  Guy  remarked,  balancing  a  fragment  of 
fried  sole  on  his  fork  as  he  spoke,  "  I'm  not  going  all  that 
way  down  to  Chetwood  merely  to  swell  Mrs.  Holker's  tri- 
umph." 

"  I  wouldn't  if  I  were  you,"  Cyril  answered,  with  quiet 
incisiveness.  He  hadn't  exactly  fallen  in  love  with  Elma  at 
first  sight,  but  he  was  very  much  interested  in  her,  and  it 
struck  him  at  once  that  what  interested  him  was  likely  also  to 
interest  his  twin  brother.  And  this  is  just  one  of  those  rare 
cases  in  life  where  a  man  prefers  that  his  interest  in  a  subject 
should  not  be  shared  by  any  other  person. 

Before  Saturday,  the  29th,  arrived,  however,  Guy  had  so  far 
changed  his  mind  in  the  matter  that  he  presented  himself  duly 
with  Nevitt  at  Waterloo  to  catch  the  same  train  to  Chetwood 
station  that  Cyril  went  down  by. 

"After  all,"  he  said  to  Nevitt,  as  they  walked  together  from 
the  club  in  Piccadilly,  "  I  may  as  well  see  what  the  girl's  like, 
anyhow.    If  she's  got  to  be  my  sister-in-law — which  seems 


WHAT  S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE. 


Aft 


to 


not  unlikely  now — I'd  better  have  a  look  at  her  beforehand, 
so  to  speak,  on  approbation." 

The  Holkers'  grounds  were  large,  and  well  planted  with  vel- 
vety lawns,  on  the  slope  of  a  well-wooded  hill  overlooking  the 
boundless  blue  weald  of  Surrey.  Nevitt  and  the  Warings 
were  late  to  arrive,  and  found  most  of  the  guests  already 
assembled  before  them. 

After  a  time  Guy  found  himself,  to  his  intense  chagrin,  told 
off  by  his  hostess  to  do  the  honors  to  an  amiable  old  lady  of 
high  tonnage  and  great  conversational  powers,  who  rattled  on 
uninterruptedly  in  one  silvery  stream  about  everybody  on  the 
ground,  their  histories  and  their  pedigrees.  She  took  the  talk- 
ing so  completely  off  his  hands,  however,  that  after  a  very  few 
minutes.  Gay,  who  was  by  nature  of  a  lazy  and  contemplative 
disposition,  had  almost  ceased  to  trouble  himself  about  what 
she  said,  interposing  "indeeds"  and  "  reallys  "  with  automatic 
politeness  at  measured  intervals;  when  suddenly  the  old  lady, 
coming  upon  a  bench  where  a  mother  and  daughter  were  seated 
in  the  shade,  settled  down  by  their  sides  in  a  fervor  of  wel- 
come, and  shook  hands  with  them  both  effussively  in  a  most 
demonstrative  fashion. 

The  daughter  was  pretty  —  yes,  distinctly  pretty.  She 
attracted  Guy's  attention  at  once  by  the  piercing  keenness  of 
her  lustrous  dark  eyes,  and  the  delicate  olive-brown  of  her 
transparent  complexion.  Her  expression  was  merry,  but  with 
a  strange  and  attractive  undertone,  he  thought,  of  some  mys- 
terious charm.  A  more  taking  girl,  indeed,  now  he  came  to 
look  close,  he  hadn't  seen  for  months.  He  congratulated 
himself  on  his  garrulous  old  lady's  choice  of  a  bench  to  sit 
upon,  if  it  helped  him  to  an  introduction  to  the  beautiful 
stranger. 

But  before  he  could  even  be  introduced,  the  pretty  girl 
with  the  olive-brown  complexion  had  held  out  her  hand  to 
him  frankly,  and  excl  'med,  in  a  voice  as  sunny  as  her  face: 

"I  don't  need  to  bt  .:old  your  friend's  name,  I'm  sure,  Mrs. 
Godfrey.  He's  so  awfully  like  him,  I  should  have  known 
him  anywher(*.  Of  course  you're  Mr.  Waring's  brother,  aren't 
you?" 

Guy  smiled,  and  bowed  gracefully;  he  was  always  graceful. 

"  I  refuse  to  be  merely  Mr.  Waring's  brother^''  he  answered, 
with  some  amusement,  as  he  took  the  proffered  hand  in  his 
own  warmly.    "  If  it  comes  to  that,  I'm  Mr.  Waring  myself; 


i-.i 


36 


what's  bred  in  the  hone. 


f 


and  Cyril,  whom  you  seem  to  know  already,  is  or.ly  my 
brother." 

"  Ah,  but  my  Mr.  Waring  isn't  here  to-day,  is  he?  "  the  olive- 
brown  girl  put  in,  looking  around  with  quite  an  eager  interest 
at  the  crowd  in  the  distance.  "  Naturally,  to  me,  he's  //le  Mr. 
Waring,  of  course,  and  you  are  only  wy  Mr.  Waring's  brother." 

"  Elma,  my  dear,  what  on  earth  will  Mr.  Waring  think  of 
you?  "  her  mother  put  in,  with  the  conventional  shocked  face 
of  British  propriety.  "You  know,"  she  went  on,  turning 
round  quickly  to  Guy,  **  we're  all  so  grateful  to  your  brother 
for  his  kindness  to  our  girl  in  that  dreadful  accident  the  other 
day  at  Lavington  that  we  can't  help  thinking  and  talking  of 
him  all  the  time  as  our  Mr.  Waring.  I'm  scrry  he  isn't  here 
himself  this  afternoon  to  receive  our  thanks.  It  would  be 
such  a  pleasure  to  all  of  us  to  give  them  to  him  in  person." 

"  Oh,  he  is  about,  somewhere,"  Guy  answered,  carelessly, 
still  keeping  his  eye  fixed  hard  on  the  pretty  girl.  "  I'll  fetch 
him  round  by  and  by  to  pay  his  respects  in  due  form.  He'll 
be  only  too  glad.  And  this,  I  suppose,  must  be  Miss  Clifford, 
that  I've  heard  so  much  about." 

As  he  said  those  words,  a  little  gleam  of  pleasure  shot 
through  Elma's  eyes.  Her  painter  hadn't  forgotten  her,  then. 
He  had  talked  much  about  her. 

"  Yes,  I  knew  who  you  must  be  the  very  first  moment  I  saw 
you,"  she  answered,  blushing;  "you're  so  much  like  him  in 
some  ways,  though  not  in  all.  .  .  .  And  he  told  me  that  day 
he  had  a  twin  brother." 

"So  much  like  him  in  some  ways,"  Guy  repeated,  much 
amused.  "  Why,  I  wonder  you  don't  take  me  for  Cyril  him- 
self at  once.  You're  the  very  first  person  I  ever  knew  in  my 
life,  except  a  few  old  and  very  intimate  friends,  who  could  tell 
at  all  the  difference  between  us." 

Elma  drew  back,  almost  as  if  shocked  and  hurt,  at  the  bare 
suggestion. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,"  she  cried,  quicMy,  ^canning  him  over  at 
once  with  those  piercing,  keen  eyes  of  hers;  "you're  like  him, 
of  course — I  don't  deny  the  likeness — as  brothers  my  be  like 
one  another.  Your  features  are  the  same,  and  the  color  of 
your  hair  and  eyes,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing;  but  still,  I 
knew  at  a  glance  you  weren't  my  Mr.  Waring.  I  could  never 
mistake  you  for  him;  the  expression  and  the  look  are  so 
utterly  different." 


WHAT  S   IJRKI)   IN    THK    HONE. 


87 


**  You  must  be  a  very  subtle  judge  of  faces,"  the  young  man 
answered,  still  smiling,  "  if  you  knew  us  apart  at  first  sight; 
for  I  never  before  in  my  life  met  anybody  who'd  seen  my 
brother  once  or  twice,  and  who  didn't  take  me  for  him,  or  him 
for  me,  the  very  first  time  he  saw  us  apart.  But  then,"  he 
added,  after  a  short  pause,  with  a  quick  dart  of  his  eyes,  "you 
were  with  him  in  the  tunnel  for  a  whole  long  day;  and  in  that 
time,  of  course,  you  saw  a  good  deal  of  him." 

Elma  blushed  again,  and  Guy  noticed  in  passing  that  she 
blushed  very  prettily. 

"And  how's  Sardanapalus?"  she  asked,  in  a  somewhat 
hurried  voice,  making  an  inartistic  attempt  to  change  the 
subject. 

"  Oh,  Sardanapalus  is  all  right,"  Guy  answered,  laughing. 
"  Cyril  told  me  you  had  made  friends  with  him,  and  weren't 
one  bit  afraid  of  him.  Most  people  are  so  dreadfully  fright- 
ened of  the  poor  old  creature." 

"  But  he  isn't  old,"  Elma  exclaimed,  interrupting  him  with 
some  warmth.  "  He's  in  the  prime  of  life.  He's  so  glossy  and 
beautiful.     1  quite  fell  in  love  with  him." 

"And  who  is  Sardanapalus?"  Mrs  Clifford  asked,  with  a 
vague  maternal  sense  of  discomfort  and  doubt.  "  A  dog  or  a 
monkey? " 

"Oh,  Sardanapalus,  mother — didn't  I  tell  you  about  him?" 
Elma  cried,  enthusiastically.  "  Why,  he's  just  lovely  and 
beautiful.  He's  such  a  glorious  green  and  yellow  banded  snake; 
and  he  coiled  around  my  arm  as  if  he'd  always  known  me." 

Mrs.  Clifford  drew  back  with  a  horror-stricken  face,  darting 
across  at  her  daughter  the  same  stealthy  sort  of  look  she  had 
given  her  husband  the  night  after  Elma's  adventure. 

"A  snake!"  she  repeated,  aghast;  "a  snake!  Oh,  Elma! 
Why,  you  never  told  me  that.  And  he  coiled  around  your 
arm.     How  horrible! " 

But  Elma  wasn't  to  be  put  down  by  exclamations  of  horror. 

"  Why,  you're  not  afraid  of  snakes  yourself,  you  know, 
mother,"  she  went  on,  undismayed.  "  I  remember  papa  say- 
ing that  when  you  were  at  St.  Kitts  with  him  you  never 
minded  them  a  bit,  but  caught  them  in  your  hands  like  an 
Indian  juggler,  and  treated  them  as  playthings;  so  I  wasn't 
afraid,  either.     I  suppose  it's  hereditary." 

Mrs.  Clifford  gazed  at  her  fixedly  for  a  few  seconds  with  a 
very  pale  face. 


i 


I 


88 


WHAT  S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE. 


1 

I 


"  I  suppose  it  is,"  she  said,  slowly  and  stiffly,  with  an  evi- 
dent effort.  '♦  Most  things  are,  in  fact,  in  this  world  we  live 
in.     But  I  didn't  knovryou,  at  least,  had  inherited  it,  Elma." 

Just  at  that  moment  they  were  relieved  from  the  temporary 
embarrassment  which  the  mention  of  Sardanapalus  seemed  lo 
have  caused  the  party,  by  the  approach  of  a  tall  and  very  hand- 
some man,  who  came  forward  with  a  smile  toward  where  their 
group  was  standing.  He  was  military  in  bearing,  and  had  dark- 
brown  hair,  with  a  white  mustache;  but  he  hardly  looked 
more  than  fifty  for  all  that,  as  Guy  judged  at  once  from  his 
erect  carriage  and  the  singular  youthfulness  of  both  face  and 
figure.  That  he  was  a  born  aristocrat  one  could  see  in  every 
motion  of  his  well-built  limbs.  His  mien  had  that  ineffable 
air  of  grace  and  breeding  which  sometimes  marks  the  mem- 
bers of  our  old  English  families.  Very  much  like  Cyril,  too, 
Guy  thought  to  himself,  in  a  flash  of  intuition;  very  much  like 
Cyril,  the  way  he  raised  his  hat  and  then  smiled  urbanely  on 
Mrs.  Clifford  and  Elma.  But  it  was  Cyril  grown  old,  and  pre- 
maturely white,  and  filled  full  with  the  grave  haughtiness  of 
an  honored  aristocrat. 

"Why,  here's  Colonel  Kelmscott!"  Mrs.  Clifford  exclaimed, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief,  not  a  little  set  at  ease  by  the  timely 
diversion.  "We're  so  glad  you've  come.  Colonel.  And  Lady 
Emily,  too,  she's  over  yonder,  is  she?  Ah,  well,  I'll  look  out 
for  her.  We  heard  you  were  to  be  here.  Oh,  how  kind  of 
you;  thank  you.  No,  Elma's  none  the  worse  for  her  advent- 
ure, thank  heaven!  just  a  little  shaken,  that's  all,  but  not 
otherwise  injured.  And  this  gentleman's  the  brother  of  the 
kind  friend  who  was  so  good  to  her  in  the  tunnel.  I'm  not 
quite  sure  of  the  name.     I  think  it's — " 

"Guy  Waring,"  the  young  man  interposed,  blandly. 

Hardly  anyone  who  looked  at  Colonel  Kelmscott's  eyes 
could  even  have  pearceived  the  pijfound  surprise  this  an- 
nouncement caused  him.  He  i;jwed  without  moving  a  muscle 
of  that  military  face.  Guy  himself  never  noticed  the  intense 
emotion  the  introduction  aroused  in  the  distinguished 
stranger.  But  Mrs.  Clifford  and  Elma,  each  scanning  him 
closely  with  those  keen  gray  eyes  of  theirs,  observed  at  once 
that,  unmoved  as  he  appeared,  a  thunderbolt  falling  at  Colonel 
Kelmscott's  feet  could  not  more  thoroughly  or  completely 
have  stunned  him.  For  a  second  or  two  he  gazed  in  the  young 
man's  face  uneasily,  his  color  came  and  went,  his  bosom 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


89 


heaved  iu  silence;  then  he  roped  his  mustache  with  his  trem- 
bling fingers,  and  tried  in  vain  to  pump  up  some  harmless 
remark  appropriate  to  the  occasion.  But  no  remark  came  to 
him.  Mrs.  Clifford  darted  a  furtive  glance  at  Elma,  and  Elma 
darted  back  a  furtive  glance  at  Mrs.  Clifford.  Neither  said  a 
word,  and  each  let  her  eyes  drop  to  the  ground  at  once  as 
they  met  the  other's.  But  each  knew  in  her  heart  that  some- 
thing passing  strange  had  astonished  Colonel  Kelmscott;  and 
each  knew,  too,  that  the  other  had  observed  it. 

Mother  and  daughter,  indeed,  needed  no  spoken  words  to 
tell  these  things  plainly  to  one  another.  The  deep  intuition 
that  descended  to  both  was  enough  to  put  them  in  sympathy 
at  once  without  the  need  of  articulate  language. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Guy  Waring,"  Mrs.  Clifford  repeated  at  last, 
breaking  the  awkward  silence  that  supervened  upon  the  group. 
"The  brother  of  Mr.  Cyril  Waring,  who  was  so  kind  the  other 
day  to  my  daughter  in   the   tunnel." 

The  Colonel  started  imperceptibly  to  the  naked  eye  again. 

"Oh,  indeed,"  he  said,  forcing  himself  with  an  effort  to 
speak  at  last.  "I've  read  about  it,  of  course;  it  was  in  all  the 
papers.  .  .  .  And — eh  —  is  your  brother  here,  too,  this 
afternoon,  Mr.  Waring  ? " 


CHAPTER  VII. 


KELMSCOTT  OF  TILGATE. 

To  both  Elma  and  her  mother  this  meeting  between  Colonel 
Kelmscott  and  Guy  Waring  was  full  of  mystery;  for  the 
Kelmscotts  of  Tilgate  Park  were  the  oldest  county  family  in 
all  that  part  of  Surrey,  and  Colonel  Kelmscott  himself  passed 
as  the  proudest  man  of  tiiat  haughtiest  house  in  Southern 
England.  What,  therefore,  could  have  made  him  give  so 
curious  and  almost  imperceptible  a  start  the  moment  Guy 
Waring's  name  was  mentioned  in  conversation  ?  Not  a  word 
that  he  said,  to  be  sure,  implied  to  Guy  himself  the  depth  of 
his  surprise ;  but  Elma,  with  her  marvelous  insight,  could  see 
at  once,  for  all  that,  by  the  very  haze  in  his  eyes,  that  he  was 
fascinated  by  Guy's  personality,  somewhat  as  she  herself  had 
been  fascinated  the  other  day  in  the  train  by  Sardanapalus. 
Nay,  more  ;  he  seemed  to  wish  with  all  his  heart  to  leave  the 


H 


^il'' 


40 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


,' 


» 
<* 

^ 


'« 


11 


young  man's  presence,  and  yet  to  be  glued  to  the  spot,  in  spite 
of  himself,  by  some  strange  compulsion. 

It  was  with  a  dreamy,  far-away  tone  in  his  voice  that  the 
Colonel  uttered  those  seemingly  simple  words,  "And  is  your 
brother  here,  too,  this  afternoon,  Mr.  Waring  ? " 

"Yes,  he's  somewhere  about,"  Guy  answered,  carelessly. 
"  He'll  turn  up  by  and  by,  no  doubt.  H-^'s  pretty  sure  to  find 
out,  sooner  or  later,  Miss  Clifford's  here,  then  he'll  come 
round  this  way  to  speak  to  her." 

For  some  time  they  stood  talking  in  a  little  group  by  the 
bench.  Colonel  Kelmscott  meanwhile  thawing  by  degrees  and 
growing  gradually  interested  in  what  Guy  had  to  say,  while 
Elma  looked  on  with  a  devouring  curiosity, 

"  Your  brother's  a  painter,  you  say,"  the  Colonel  murmured 
once  under  that  heavy  white  mustache  of  his;  "  yes,  I  think  I 
remember — a  rising  painter.  Had  a  capital  landscape  in  the 
Grosvenor  last  year,  I  recollect,  and  another  in  the  Academy 
'this  spring,  if  I  don't  mistake — skied — skied  unfairly;  yet  a 
very  pretty  thing,  too:  *  At  the  Home  of  the  Curlews.'  " 

"  He's  painting  a  sweet  one  now,"  Elma  put  in,  quickly, 
"  down  here,  close  by,  in  Chetwood  forest.  He  told  me  about 
it;  it  must  be  simply  lovely — all  fern  and  mosses,  with,  oh' 
such  a  beautiful  big  snake  in  the  foreground 

"  I  should  like  to  see  it, 
not  without  a  pang.     "  If  it's 

your  brother,  Mr.  Waring — that  would  give  it,  to  me,  a  certain 
personal  value." 

He  paused  a  moment;  then  he  added  in  a  little  explanatory 
undertone,  "  I'm  lord  of  the  manor,  you  know,  at  Chetwood, 
and  I  shoot  the  forest." 

"  Cyril  would  be  delighted  to  let  you  see  the  piece  w'nen  it's 
finished,"  Guy  answered,  lightly,  "  if  you're  ever  up  in  town 
our  way — we've  rooms  in  Staple  Inn.  I  dare  say  you  know 
h — that  quaint,  old  fashioned-looking  place,  with  big  lattice 
windows,  that  overhangs  Holborn." 

Colonel  Kelmscott  started,  and  drew  himself  up  still  taller 
and  stiffer  than  before. 

"  I  may  have  some  opportunity  of  seeing  it  some  day  in  one 
of  the  galleries,"  he  answered,  coldly,  as  if  not  to  commit  him- 
self. "  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  seldom  have  time  to  lounge 
about  in  studios.  It  was  merely  the  coincidence  of  the  picture 
being  painted  in  Chetwood  forest  that  made  me  fancy  for  a 


"  Colonel  Kelmscott  said,  slowly, 
painted  in  the  forest — and  by 


I 


I! 


Ill 


WHAT  S  BRSD   IN    THE   BONE. 


41 


|i 


I 


moment  I  might  like  to  see  it.  But  I'm  no  connoisseur. 
Mrs.  Clifford,  may  I  take  you  to  get  a  cup  of  tea?  Tea,  I 
think,  i.i  laid  out  in  the  tent  behind  the  shrubbery." 

It  was  said  in  a  tone  to  dismiss  Guy  politely;  and  Guy, 
taking  the  hint,  accepted  it  as  such,  and  fell  back  a  pace  or 
two  to  his  garrulous  old  lady.  But  before  Colonel  Kelmscott 
could  walk  off  Mrs.  Clifford  and  her  daughter  to  the  marquee 
for  refreshments,  Elma  gave  a  sudden  start,  and  blushed 
faintly  pink  through  that  olive-brown  skin  of  hers. 

"Why,  there's  ///y  Mr.  Waring!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  very 
pleased  tone,  holding  out  her  hand  with  a  delicious  smile;  and 
as  she  said  it,  Cyril  and  Montague  Nevitt  strolled  up  from 
behind  a  great  clump  of  lilacs  beside  them. 

Two  pairs  of  eyes  watched  those  young  folks  closely  as  they 
shook  hands  once  more — Guy's  and  Mrs.  Clifford's.  Guy 
observed  that  a  little  red  spot  rose  on  Cyril's  cheek  he  had 
rarely  seen  there,  and  that  his  voice  trembled  slightly  as  he 
said  **  How  do  you  do? "  to  his  pretty  fellow-traveler  of  the 
famous  adventure.  Mrs.  Clifford  observed  that  the  faint  pink 
faded  out  of  the  olive-brown  skin  as  Elma  took  Cyril  Waring's 
hand  in  hers,  and  that  her  face  grew  pale  for  three  minutes 
afterward.  And  Colonel  Kelmscott,  looking  on  with  a  quietly 
observant  eye,  remarked  to  himself  that  Cyril  Waring  was  a 
very  creditable  young  man  indeed,  as  handsome  as  Guy,  and 
as  like  as  two  peas,  but  if  anything,  perhaps  even  a  trifle  more 
pleasing. 

For  the  rest  of  that  afternoon  they  six  kept  constantly 
together. 

Elma  noted  that  Colonel  Kelmscott  was  evidently  ill  at  ease; 
a  thing  most  unusual  with  that  proud,  self-reliant  aristocrat. 
He  held  himself,  to  be  sure,  as  straight  and  erect  as  ever,  and 
moved  about  the  grounds  with  that  same  haughty  air  of  per- 
fect supremacy,  as  of  one  who  was  monarch  of  all  he  surveyed  in 
the  county  of  Surrey.  But  Elma  could  see,  for  all  that,  that 
he  was  absent-minded  and  self-contained;  he  answered  all 
questions  in  a  distant,  unthinking  way;  some  inner  trouble  was 
undoubtedly  consuming  him.  His  eyes  v/ere  all  for  the  two 
Warings.  They  glanced  nervously  right  and  left  every  minute 
in  haste,  but  returned  after  each  excursion  straight  to  Guy  and 
Cyril.  The  Colonel  noted  narrowly  all  they  said  and  did,  and 
Elma  was  sure  he  was  very  much  pleased,  at  least,  with  her 
painter.    How  could  he  fail  to  be,  indeed  ? — for  Mr.  Waring  was 


i'- 


'  i 


42 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


: 


h 


'r 


charming.  Elma  wished  she  could  have  strolled  off  with  him 
about  the  lawn  alone,  were  it  only  ten  paces  in  front  of  her 
mother.  But  somehow  the  fates  that  day  were  unpropitious. 
The  party  held  together  as  by  some  magnetic  bond,  and  Mrs. 
Clifford's  eye  never  for  one  moment  deserted  her. 

The  Colonel  glowered.  The  Colonel  was  moody.  His 
speech  was  curt.  He  occupied  himself  mainly  in  listening  to 
Guy  and  Cyril.  A  sort  of  mesmeric  influence  seemed  to  draw 
him  toward  the  two  young  men. 

He  drew  them  out  deliberately.  Yet  the  start  he  had  given 
as  either  young  man  came  up  toward  his  side  was  a  start,  not  of 
mere  natural  surprise,  but  of  positive  disinclination  and  regret 
at  the  meeting.  Nay,  even  now  he  was  angling  hard,  with  all 
the  skill  of  a  strategist,  to  keep  the  Warings  out  of  Lady 
Emily's  way.  But  the  more  he  talked  to  them,  the  more  inter- 
ested he  seemed.  It  was  clear  he  meant  to  make  the  most  of 
this  passing  chance — and  never  again,  if  he  could  help  it, 
Elma  felt  certain,  to  see  them. 

Once,  and  once  only,  Granville  Kelmscott,  his  son,  strolled 
casually  up  and  joined  the  group  by  pure  chance  for  a  few 
short  minutes.  The  heir  of  Tilgate  Park  was  tall  and  hand- 
some, though  less  so  than  his  father;  and  Mrs.  Clifford  was 
not  wholly  indisposed  to  throw  him  and  Elma  together  as 
much  as  possible.  Younger  by  a  full  year  than  the  two  War- 
ings, Granville  Kelmscott  was  not  wholly  unlike  them  in  face 
and  manner.  As  a  rule,  his  father  was  proud  of  him  with  a 
passing  great  pride,  as  he  was  proud  of  every  other  Kelmscott 
possession.  But  to-day  Elma's  keen  eye  observed  that  the 
Colonel's  glance  moved  quickly  in  a  rapid  dart  from  Cyril  and 
Guy  to  his  son  Granville,  and  back  again  from  his  son  Gran- 
ville to  Guy  and  Cyril.  What  was  odder  still,  the  hasty  com- 
parison seemed  to  redound  not  altogether  to  Granville's  credit. 
The  Colonel  paused,  and  stifled  a  sigh  as  he  looked;  then,  in 
spite  of  Mrs.  Clifford's  profound  attempts  to  retain  the  heir 
by  her  side,  he  sent  the  young  man  off  at  a  moment's  notice 
to  hunt  up  Lady  Emily.  Now  why  on  earth  did  he  want  to 
keep  Granville  and  the  Warings  apart?  Mrs.  Clifford  and 
Elma  racked  their  brains  in  vain;  they  could  make  nothing 
of  the  mystery. 

It  was  a  long  afternoon,  and  Elma  enjoyed  it,  though  she 
never  got  her  tete-drHte^  after  all,  with  Cyril  Waring.  Just  a 
rapid  look,  a  dart  from  the  eyes,  a  taint  pressure  of  her  hands 


what's  bred  in  the  bons. 


48 


at  parting — that  was  all  the  romance  she  was  able  to  extract 
from  it,  so  closely  did  Mrs.  Clifford  play  her  part  as  chaperon. 
But  as  the  two  young  men  and  Montague  Nevitt  hurried  off 
at  last  to  catch  their  train  back  to  town,  the  Colonel  turned 
to  Mrs.  Clifford  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  Splendid  young  fellows,  those,"  he  exclaimed,  looking  after 
them.  "  I'm  not  sorry  I  met  them.  Ought  to  have  gone  into 
a  cavalry  regiment  early  in  life;  what  fine  leaders  they'd  have 
made,  to  be  sure,  in  a  dash  for  the  guns  or  a  charge  against  a 
battery!  But  they  seem  to  have  done  well  for  themselves  in 
their  own  way:  carved  out  their  own  fortunes,  each  after  his 
fashion.  Very  plucky  young  fellows.  One  of  them's  a  painter, 
and  one's  a  journalist;  and  both  of  them  are  making  their 
mark  in  their  own  world.     I  really  admire  them." 

And  on  the  way  to  the  station,  that  moment,  Mr.  Montague 
Nevitt,  as  he  lit  his  cigarette,  was  saying  to  Cyril,  with  an 
approving  smile,  "Your  Miss  Clifford's  r)retty." 

"Yes,"  Cyril  answered,  dryly,  "she's  not  bad  looking.  She 
looked  her  best  to-day;  and  she's  capital  company." 

But  Guy  broke  out  unabashed  into  a  sudden  burst  of  speech. 

"Not  bad  looking!"  he  cried,  contemptuously.  "Is  that 
all  you  have  to  say  of  her?  And  you  a  painter,  too!  Why 
she's  beautiful!  She's  charming!  If  Cyril  were  shut  up  in  a 
tunnel  with  her — " 

He  broke  off  suddenly. 

And  for  the  rest  of  the  way  home  he  spoke  but  seldom.  It 
was  all  too  true.  The  two  Warings  were  cast  in  the  self-same 
mold.  What  attracted  one,  it  was  clear,  no  less  surely  and 
certainly  attracted  the  other. 

As  they  went  to  their  separate  rooms  in  Staple  Inn  that 
night,  Guy  paused  for  a  moment,  candle  in  hand,  by  his  door, 
and  looked  straight  at  Cyril. 

"  You  needn't  fear  me"  he  said,  in  a  very  low  tone.  " She's 
yours.  You  found  her.  I  wouldn't  be  mean  enough  for  a 
minute  to  interfere  with  your  find.  But  I'm  not  surprised  at 
you.  I  would  do  the  same  myself,  if  I  could  have  seen  her 
first.  I  won't  see  her  again.  I  couldn't  stand  it.  She's  too 
beautiful  to  see  and  not  to  fall  in  love  with." 


* 


44 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


ELMA   BREAKS  OUT. 


Mrs.  Clifford  returned  from  Chetwood  Court  that  day  in 
by  no  means  such  high  spirits  as  when  she  went  there.  In 
the  first  place,  she  hadn't  succeeded  in  throwing  Elma  and 
Granville  Kelmscott  into  one  another's  company  at  all,  and  in 
the  second  place,  Elma  had  talked  much  under  her  very  nose, 
for  half  an  nour  at  a  stretch,  with  the  unknown  young  painter 
fellow.  When  Elma  was  asked  out  anywhere  else  in  the  coun- 
try for  the  next  six  weeks  or  so,  Mrs.  Clifford  made  up  her 
mind  strictly  to  inquire,  in  priyate,  before  committing  herself 
to  an  acceptance,  whether  that  dangerous  young  man  was  likely 
or  not  to  be  included  in  the  party. 

For  Mrs.  Clifford  admitted  frankly  to  herself  that  Cyril  was 
dangerou:^ ;  as  dangerous  as  they  make  them.  He  was  just 
the  right  age  ;  he  was  handsome,  he  was  clever ;  his  tawny 
brown  beard  had  the  faintest  littkC  touch  of  artistic  redness, 
and  was  trimmed  and  dressed  with  provoking  nicety.  He  was 
an  artist,  too  ;  and  girls  nowadays,  you  know,  have  such 
an  unaccountable  way  of  falling  in  love  with  men  who  can 
paint,  or  write  verses,  or  play  the  violin,  or  do  something 
foolish  of  that  sovt,  instead  of  sticking  fast  to  the  solid  at- 
tractions of  the  London  Stock  Exchange  or  of  ancestral  acres. 

Mrs.  Clifford  confided  her  fears  that  very  night  to  the  sym- 
pathetic ear  of  the  Companion  of  the  Militant  and  Guardian 
Saints  of  the  British  Empire. 

"Reginald,"  she  saiJ,  solemnly,  "I  told  you  the  other  day, 
when  you  asked  about  it,  Elma  wasn't  in  love,  and  at  the 
time  I  was  right,  or  very  near  it;  but  this  afternoon  I've  had 
an  opportunity  of  watching  them  both  together,  and  I've  half' 
changed  my  mind.  Elma  thinks  a  great  deal  too  much  alto- 
gether, I'm  afraid,  about  this  young  Mr.  Waring." 

"  How  do  you  know  ? "  Mr.  Clifford  asked,  staring  her  hard 
in  the  face,  and  nodding  solemnly. 

The  British  matron  hesitated. 

"How  do  I  know  anything?"  she  answered  at  last,  driven 
to  bay  by  the  question.  "  I  never  know  how.  I  only  know  I 
know  it.    But  whatever  we  do,  we  must  be  careful  not  to  let 


I 


^|jyM||B||y||iJ^^ 


''t? 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN   THE   lU^NK. 


45 


Elma  and  the  young  man  get  thrown  together  again.  I  should 
say  myself  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  plan  if  we  were  to  send  her 
away  somewhere  for  the  rest  of  the  summer;  but  I  can  lell  you 
better  about  all  this  to-morrow." 

Elma,  for  her  part,  had  come  home  from  Chetwood  Court 
more  full  than  ever  of  Cyril  Waring.  He  looked  so  handsome 
and  sc  manly  that  afternoon  at  the  Holkers'.  Elma  hoped 
she'd  be  asked  out  where  he  was  going  to  be  again. 

She  sat  long  in  her  own  bedroom,  thinking  it  over  with  her- 
self, while  the  candle  burnt  down  in  its  socket  very  low,  and  the 
house  was  still,  and  the  rain  pattered  hard  on  the  roof  over- 
head— and  her  father  and  mother  were  discussing  her  by  them- 
selves down-stairs  in  the  drawing-room. 

She  sat  long  on  her  chair,  without  caring  to  begin  undress- 
ing. She  sat  and  mused  with  her  hands  crossed  on  her  lap. 
She  sat  and  thought,  and  her  thoughts  were  all  about  Cyril 
Waring. 

For  more  than  an  hour  she  sat  there  dreamily,  and  told  her- 
self over,  one  by  one,  in  long  order,  the  afternoon's  events  from 
beginning  to  the  end  of  them.  She  repeated  every  word  Cyril 
had  spoken  in  her  ear.  She  remembered  every  glance,  every 
look  he  had  darted  at  her.  She  thought  of  that  faint  pressure 
of  his  hand  as  he  said  farewell.  The  tender  blush  came  back 
to  her  brown  cheek  once  more  with  maidenly  shame  as  she 
told  it  all  over.  He  was  so  handsome  and  so  nice,  and  so  very, 
very  kind,  and  perhaps  after  this  she  might  never  again  meet 
him.  Her  bosom  heaved.  She  was  conscious  of  a  new  sense 
just  aroused  within  her. 

Presently  her  heart  began  to  beat  more  violently.  She  didn't 
know  why.  It  had  never  beaten  in  her  life  like  that  before — 
not  even  in  the  tunnel,  nor  yet  when  Cyril  came  up  to-day  and 
spoke  first  to  her.  Slowly,  slowly,  she  rose  from  her  seat. 
The  fit  was  upon  her.  Could  this  be  a  dream  ?  Some  strange 
impulse  made  her  glide  forward  and  stand  for  a  minute  or  two, 
irresolute,  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  Then  she  turned  round, 
once,  twice,  thrice,  half-unconsciously.  She  turned  round, 
wondering  to  herself  all  the  while  what  this  strange  thing 
could  mean  ;  faster,  faster,  faster,  her  heart  within  her  beating 
at  each  turn  with  more  frantic  haste  and  speed  than  ever.  For 
some  minutes  she  turned,  glowing  with  red  'jhame,  yet  unable 
to  stop,  and  still  more  unable  to  say  to  herself  why  or  where- 
fore. 


Hi 
1' 


f  ?( 


5   I   :'. 


P'< 


IMt 


46 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


At  first  that  was  all.  She  merely  turned  and  panted.  But 
as  she  whirled  and  whirled,  new  moods  and  figures  seemed  to 
force  themselves  upon  her.  She  lifted  her  hands  and  swayed 
them  above  her  head  gracefully.  She  was  posturing,  she 
knew,  but  why  she  had  no  idea.  It  all  came  upon  her  as  sud- 
denly and  as  uncontrollably  as  a  blush.  She  was  v/hirling 
around  the  room,  now  slow,  now  fast,  but  always  with  her 
arms  held  out  lissom  like  a  dancing-girl's.  Sometimes  her 
body  bent  this  way,  and  sometimes  that,  her  hands  keeping 
time  to  her  movements  meanwhile  in  long,  graceful  curves, 
but  all  as  if  compelled  by  some  extrinsic  necessity. 

It  was  an  instinct  within  her  over  which  she  had  no  control. 
Surely,  surely,  she  must  be  possessed.  A  spirit  that  was  not 
her  seemed  to  be  catching  her  round  the  waist,  and  twist- 
ing her  about,  and  makinf^  her  spin  headlong  over  the  floor 
through  this  wild,  fierce  dance  It  was  terrible,  terrible;  yet 
she  could  not  prevent  it.  A  force  not  her  own  seemed  to  sus- 
tain and  impel  her. 

And  all  the  time,  as  she  whirled,  she  was  conscious  also  of 
some  strange,  dim  need.  A  sense  of  discomfort  oppressed  her 
arma.  She  hadn't  everything  she  required  for  this  solitary 
orgy.  Something  more  was  lacking  her — something  essen- 
tial, vital;  but  what  on  earth  it  could  be  she  knew  not,  she 
knew  not. 

By  and  by  she  paused,  and,  as  she  glanced  right  and  left, 
the  sense  of  discomfort  grew  clearer  and  more  vivid.  It  was 
her  hands  that  were  wrong.  Her  hands  were  empty.  She 
must  have  something  ^j  fill  them  —  something  alive,  lithe, 
curling,  sinuous.  These  wavings  and  swayings,  to  this  side 
and  to  that,  seemed  so  meaningless  and  void  —  without  some 
life  to  guide  them.  There  was  nothing  for  her  to  hold  ;  noth- 
ing to  tame  and  subdue  ;  nothing  to  cling  and  writhe  and 
give  point  to  her  movements.     Oh,  heavens  !  how  terrible  ! 

She  drew  herself  up  suddenly  and,  by  dint  of  a  fierce  brief 
effort  of  will,  repressed  for  awhile  the  mad  dance  that  over- 
mastered her.  The  spirit  within  her,  if  spirit  it  were,  kept 
quiet  for  a  moment,  awed  and  subdued  by  her  proud  deter- 
mination —  then  it  began  once  more  and  led  her  resistlessly 
forward.  She  moved  over  to  the  chest  of  drawers,  still  rhyth- 
mically and  with  set  steps,  but  to  the  phantom  strain  of  some 
unheard,  low  music.  The  music  was  running  vaguely  through 
her  he^d  aU  the  time — wild  .^olian  music ;  it  sounded  like 


WllM.. 


WHAT  S  BRED  IN   THE   BONE. 


47 


a  rude  tune  on  a  harp  or  a  zither.  And  surely  the  cymbals 
clashed  now  and  again  overhead  ;  and  the  timbrel  rang  clear; 
and  the  castanets  tinkled,  keeping  time  with  the  measure. 
She  stood  still  and  listened.  No,  no,  not  a  sound  save  the 
rain  on  the  roof.  It  was  the  music  of  her  own  heart,  beating 
irregularly  and  fiercely  to  an  intermittent  lilt,  like  a  Hungarian 
waltz  or  a  Roumanian  tarantella. 

By  this  time  Elma  was  thoroughly  frightened.  Was  she 
going  mad  ?  she  asked  herself,  or  had  some  evil  spirit  taken 
up  his  c*l»ode  within  her  ?  Whan  made  her  spin  and  twirl 
about  like  this — irresponsibly,  unintentionally,  irrepressibly, 
meaninglessly  ?  Oh,  what  would  her  mother  say,  if  only  she 
knew  all  ?  And  what  on  earth  would  Cyril  Waring  think  of 
her? 

Cyril  Waring !  Cyril  Waring !  It  was  all  Cyril  Waring. 
And  yet,  if  he  knew  —  oh,  mercy,  mercy! 

Still,  in  spite  of  these  doubts,  misgivings,  fears,  she  walked 
over  toward  the  chest  of  drawers  with  a  firm  and  rhythmical 
tread,  to  the  bars  of  the  internal  music  that  rang  loud  through 
her  brain,  and  began  opening  one  drawer  after  another  in  an 
aimless  fashion.  She  was  looking  for  something  —  she  didn't 
know  what ;  and  she  never  could  rest  now  until  she'd 
found  it. 

Drawer  upon  drawer  she  opened  and  shut  wearily,  but  noth- 
ing that  her  eyes  fell  upon  seemed  to  suit  her  mood.  Dresses 
and  jackets  and  underlinen  were  there  ;  she  glanced  at  them 
all  with  a  deep  sense  of  profound  contempt ;  none  of  these 
gewgaws  of  civilized  life  could  be  of  any  use  to  supply  the 
vague  want  her  soul  felt  so  dimly  and  yet  so  acutely.  They 
were  dead,  dead,  dead,  so  close  and  clinging  !  Go  further ! 
Go  further  !  At  last  she  opened  the  bottom  drawer  of  all, 
and  her  eye  fell  askance  upon  a  feather  boa,  curled  up  at  the 
bottom  —  soft,  smooth,  and  long;  a  winding,  coiling,  ser- 
pentine boa.  In  a  second  she  had  fallen  upon  it  bodily  with 
gree'^y  hands,  and  was  twisting  it  round  her  waist,  and  hold- 
ing it  high  and  low,  and  fighting  fiercely  at  times,  and 
figuring  with  it  like  a  posturant.  Some  dormant  impulse  of 
her  race  seemed  to  stir  in  her  blood,  with  frantic  leaps  and 
bounds,  at  its  first  conscious  awakening.  She  gave  herself  up 
to  it  wildly  now.  She  was  mad.  She  was  mad.  She  wa3 
glad.    She  was  happy. 

Then  she  began  to  turn  round  again,  slowly,  slowly,  slowly. 


)■: 


48 


what's  bred  in  the  bonk. 


t  •  . 


) 


(■ 


As  she  turned,  she  raised  the  boa  now  high  above  her  head ; 
now  held  it  low  on  one  side,  now  stooped  down  and  caressed 
it.  At  times,  as  she  played  with  it,  the  lifeless  thing  seemed 
to  glide  from  her  grasp  in  curling  folds  and  elude  her  ;  at 
others,  she  caught  it  round  the  neck  like  a  snake,  and  twisted 
it  about  her  arm,  or  let  it  twine  and  encircle  her  writhing 
body.  Like  a  snake !  Like  a  snake  !  That  idea  ran  like 
wildfire  through  her  burning  veins.  It  was  a  snake,  indeed, 
she  wanted,  a  real,  live  snake ;  what  would  she  not  have 
given  if  it  were  only  Sardanapalus  ! 

Sardanapalus,  so  glossy,  so  beautiful,  so  supple ;  that 
glorious  green  serpent,  with  his  large,  smooth  coils,  and  his 
silvery  scales,  and  his  darting  red  tongue,  and  his  long,  lithe 
movements.  Sardanapalus,  Sardanapalus,  Sardanapalus ! 
The  very  name  seemed  to  link  itself  with  the  music  in  her 
head.  It  coursed  with  her  blood.  It  rang  through  her 
brain  •,  and  another  as  well.  Cyril  Waring,  Cyril  Waring, 
Cyril  Waring,  Cyril  Waring  !  Oh,  great  heavens  !  what  would 
Cyril  Waring  say  now,  if  only  he  could  see  her  in  her  mad 
mood  that  moment ! 

And  yet  it  was  not  she,  not  she,  not  she,  but  some  spirit, 
some  weird,  some  unseen  power  within  her.  It  was  no  more 
she  than  that  boa  there  was  a  snake — a  real,  live  snake. 
Oh,  for  a  real,  live  snake  !  And  then  she  could  dance  —  tar- 
antel,  tarantella  —  as  the  spirit  within  her  prompted  her  to 
dance  it. 

"  Faster,  faster !  "  said  the  spirit ;  and  she  answered  him 
back,  "  Faster  !  " 

Faster,  faster,  faster,  faster  she  whirled  round  the  room; 
the  boa  grew  alive;  it  coiled  about  her;  it  strangled  her. 
Her  candle  failed;  the  wick  in  the  socket  flickered  and  died; 
but  Elma  danced  on,  unheeding,  in  the  darkness.  Dance, 
dance,  dance,  dance;  never  mind  for  the  light!  Oh!  what 
madness  was  this?  What  insanity  had  come  over  her?  Would 
her  feet  never  stop?  Must  she  go  on  till  she  dropped?  Must 
she  go  on  forever? 

Ashamed  and  terrified,  with  her  maidenly  sense  overawed 
and  obscured  by  this  hateful  charm,  yet  unable  to  stay  herself, 
unable  to  resist  it,  in  a  transport  of  fear  and  remorse,  she 
danced  on  irresponsibly.  Check  herself  she  couldn't,  let  her 
do  what  she  would.  Her  whole  being  seemed  to  go  forth  into 
that  weird,  wild  dance.    She  trembled  and  shook.    She  stood 


WHAT  S  BRED  IN   THE  BONE. 


49 


aghast  at  her  own  shame.     She  had  hard  work  to  restrain  her- 
self from  cryhig  aloud  in  her  horror. 

At  last  a  lull,  a  stillness,  a  recess.  Her  limbs  seemed  to 
yield  and  give  way  beneath  her.  She  half-fainted  wim  latigue. 
She  staggered  and  fell.  Too  weary  to  undress,  she  flung  her- 
self upon  the  bed,  just  as  she  was,  clothes  and  all.  Her  over- 
wrought nerves  lost  consciousness  at  once.  In  three  minutes 
she  was  asleep,  breathing  fast  but  peacefully. 


1 


CHAPTER  IX. 

AND    AFTER  ? 

When  Elma  woke  up  next  morning  it  was  broad  daylight. 
She  woke  with  a  start  to  find  herself  lying  upon  the  bed  where 
she  had  flung  herself.  For  a  minute  or  two  she  couldn't  rec- 
ollect or  recall  to  herself  how  it  had  all  come  about.  It  was 
too  remote  from  anything  in  her  previous  waking  thought,  too 
dreamlike,  too  impossible.  Then  an  unspeakable  horror  flashed 
over  her  unawares.  Her  face  flushed  hot.  Shame  and  terror 
overcai.ie  her.  She  buried  her  head  in  her  hands  in  an  agony 
of  awe.  Her  own  self-respect  was  literally  outraged.  It 
wasn't  exactly  remorse;  it  wasn't  exactly  fear;  it  was  a 
strange,  creeping  feeling  of  ineffable  disgust  and  incredulous 
astonishment. 

There  cjuld  be  but  one  explanation  of  this  impossible  epi- 
sode. She  must  have  gone  mad  all  at  once !  She  must  be  a 
frantic  lunatic ! 

A  single  thought  usurped  her  whole  soul.  If  she  was  going 
mad  —  if  this  was  really  mania  —  she  could  never,  never,  never 
marry  Cyril  Waring. 

For  in  a  flash  of  intuition  she  knew  that  now.  She  knew 
she  was  in  love.     She  knew  he  loved  her. 

In  that  wild  moment  of  awakening  all  the  rest  mattered 
nothing.  The  solitary  idea  that  ran  now  through  her  head, 
as  the  impulse  to  dance  had  run  through  it  last  night,  was  the 
idea  that  she  could  never  marry  Cyril  Waring.  And  if  Cyril 
Waring  could  have  seen  her  just  then!  Her  cheeks  burned 
yet  a  brighter  scarlet  at  that  thought  than  even  before.  One 
virginal  blush  suffused  her  face  from  chin  to  forehead.  The 
maidenly  sense  of  shame  consumed  and  devoured  her. 


60 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


lu, 


Was  blic  mad  ?  Was  she  mad  ?  And  was  this  a  lucid 
interval  ? 

rreseiitly,  as  she  lay  still  on  her  bed  all  dressed,  and  with 
her  face  in  her  hands,  tremblinj^  for  very  shame,  a  little  knock 
sounded  tentatively  at  the  door  of  her  bedroom.  It  was  a 
timid,  small  knock,  very  low  and  soft,  and,  as  it  were,  incjuir- 
ing.  It  seemed  to  say  in  an  apologetic  sort  of  undertone,  *'  I 
don't  know  whether  you're  awake  or  not  just  yet;  and  if 
you're  still  asleep,  pray  don't  let  me  for  a  moment  disturb  or 
arouse  you." 

"Who's  there?"  Elma  mustered  up  courage  to  ask,  in  a 
hushed  voice  of  terror,  hiding  her  head  under  the  bed-clothes. 

"  It's  me,  darling,"  Mrs.  Clifford  answered,  very  softly  and 
sweetly.  Elma  had  never  heard  her  mother  speak  in  so  tender 
and  gentle  a  tone  before,  though  they  loved  one  another  well, 
and  were  far  more  sympathetic  than  most  mothers  and  daugh- 
ters. And  besides,  that  knock  was  so  unlike  mamma's.  Why 
so  soft  and  low  ? 

Had  mamma  discovered  her?  With  a  despairing  sense  of 
being  caught,  she  looked  down  at  her  tell-tale  clothes  and  the 
unslept-in  bed. 

"Oh,  what  shall  I  ever  do?"  she  thought  to  herself,  con- 
fusedly. "  I  can't  let  mamma  come  in  and  catch  me  like  this. 
She'll  ask  why  on  earth  I  didn't  undress  last  night.  And  then 
what  could  I  ever  say  ?    How  could  I  ever  explain  to  her  ?" 

The  awful  sense  of  shame-facedness  grew  upon  her  still 
more  deeply  than  ever.  She  jumped  up,  and  whispered  through 
the  door,  in  a  very  penitent  voice,  "  Oh,  mother,  I  can't  let  you 
in  just  yet !  Do  you  mind  waiting  five  minutes?  Come  again 
by  and  by.  I  —  I  —  I'm  so  awfully  tired  and  queer  this  morn- 
ing, somehow." 

Mrs.  Clifford's  voice  had  an  answering  little  ring  of  terror 
in  it,  as  she  replied  at  once  in  the  same  soft  tone: 

"  Very  well,  darling.  That's  all  right.  Stay  as  long  as  you 
like.  Don't  trouble  to  get  up  if  you'd  rather  have  your  break- 
fast in  bed.  And  don't  hurry  yourself  at  all.  I'll  come  back 
by  and  by,  and  see  what's  the  matter." 

Elma  didn't  know  why,  but  by  the  very  tone  of  her  mother's 
voice  she  felt  dimly  conscious  something  strange  had  happened. 
Mrs.  Clifford  spoke  with  unusual  gentleness,  yet  with  an 
unwonted  tremor. 

"  Thank  you,  dear,"  Elma  answered  through  the  door,  going 


^w^ 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


51 


back  to  the  bedside  and  beginning  to  undress  in  a  tumult  of 
shame.  "Come  again  by  and  by;  in  just  five  minutes."  Jt 
would  do  her  good,  she  knew,  in  spite  of  her  .shyness,  to  talk 
with  her  mother.  Then  she  folded  her  clothes  neatly,  one  by 
one,  on  a  chair;  hid  the  peccant  boa  away  in  its  own  lower 
drawer;  buttoned  her  neat  little  embroidered  night-dress 
tightly  round  her  throat;  arranged  her  front  hair  into  a  care- 
less disorder,  and  tried  to  cool  down  her  fiery-red  cheeks  with 
copious  bathing  in  cold  wai...  When  Mrs.  Clifford  came 
back,  five  minutes  later,  everything  looked  to  the  outer  eye  of 
a  mere  casual  observer  exactly  as  if  Elma  had  laid  «n  bed  all 
night,  curled  up  between  the  sheets,  in  the  most  orthodox 
fashion. 

But  all  these  elaborate  preparations  didn't  for  one  moment 
deceive  the  mother's  watchful  glance,  or  the  keen  intuition 
shared  by  all  the  women  of  the  Clifford  family.  She  looked 
tenderly  at  Elma — Elma  with  her  face  half-buried  in  the  pil- 
lows, and  the  tell-tale  flush  still  crimsoning  her  cheek  in  a 
single  round  spot;  then  she  turned  for  a  second  to  the  clothes, 
too  neatly  folded  on  the  chair  by  the  bedside,  as  she  mur- 
mured low: 

"  You're  not  well  this  morning,  my  child.  You'd  better  not 
get  up.  I'll  bring  you  a  cup  of  tea  and  some  toast  myself. 
You  don't  feel  hungry,  of  course.  Ah,  no,  I  thought  not! 
Just  a  slice  of  dry  toast — yes,  yes,  I  have  been  there.  Some 
eau  de  Cologne  on  your  forehead,  dear?  There,  there,  don't 
cry,  Elma.  You'll  be  better  by  and  by.  Stop  in  bed  till  lunch- 
time.  I  won't  let  Lucy  come  up  with  the  tea,  of  course.  You'd 
rather  be  alone.  You  were  tired  last  night.  Don't  be  afraid, 
my  darling.  It'll  soon  pass  off.  There's  nothing  on  earth, 
nothing  at  all,  to  be  alarmed  at." 

She  laid  her  hand  nervously  on  Elma's  arm.  Half-dead 
with  shame  as  she  was,  Elma  noticed  it  trembled.  She  noticed, 
too,  that  mamma  seemed  almost  afraid  to  catch  her  eye.  When 
their  glance  met  for  an  instant,  the  mother's  eyelids  fell,  and 
her  cheek,  too,  burned  bright  red,  almost  as  red,  Elma  felt,  as 
her  own  that  nestled  hot  so  deep  in  the  pillow.  Neither  said 
a  word  to  the  other  of  what  she  thought  or  felt;  but  their 
mute  sympathy  itself  made  them  more  shame-faced  than  ever. 
In  some  dim,  indefinite,  instinctive  fashion,  Elma  knew  her 
mother  was  vaguely  aware  what  she  had  done  last  night.  Her 
gaze  fell,  half-unconsciously,  on  the  bottom  drawer.    With 


nij 


what's  bred  m  the  pone. 


r! 


J.  'i 


1 1' 


quick  insight,  Mrs.  Clifford's  eye  followed  her  daughter's; 
then  it  fell  as  before.  Elma  looked  up  at  her  terrified,  and 
burst  into  a  sudden  flood  of  tears.  Her  mother  stooped  down, 
and  caught  her  wildly  in  her  arms.  "Cry,  cry,  my  darling," 
she  murmured,  clasping  her  hard  to  her  breast.  "Cry,  cry; 
it'll  do  you  good;  there's  .safety  in  crying.  Nobody  but  1 
shall  come  near  you  to-day.  Nobody  else  shall  know!  Don't 
be  afraid  of  me!  Have  not  I  been  there,  too?  It's  nothing, 
nothing!  " 

With  a  burst  of  despair,  Elma  laid  her  face  in  her  mother's 
bosom.  Some  minutes  later,  Mrs.  Clifl'ord  went  down  to  meet 
her  husband  in  the  breakfast-room. 

"  Well? "  the  father  asked,  shortly,  looking  hard  at  his  wife's 
face,  which  told  its  own  tale  at  once,  for  it  was  white  and 
pallid. 

"\V(11!"  Mrs.  Clifford  answered,  with  a  preoccupied  air. 
"  Elmc.'s  not  herself  this  morning  at  all.  Had  a  nervous  turn 
after  she  went  to  her  room  last  night.  I  know  what  it  is.  I 
suffered  from  them  myself  when  I  was  about  her  age."  Her 
eyes  fell  quickly,  and  she  shrunk  from  her  husband's  searching 
glance.  She  was  a  plump-faced  and  well-favored  Briti.sh 
matron  now;  but  once,  many  years  before,  as  a  slim  young 
girl,  she  had  been  in  k  jq  with  somebody — somebody  nn 
by  superior  parental  wisdom  she  was  never  allowed  to  y, 

being  put  off  instead  with  a  well-connected  match,  young  Mr. 
Clifford  of  the  Colonial  Office.  That  was  all.  No  more  ro- 
mance than  that.  The  common  romance  of  every  woman's 
heart.    A  forgotten  love;  yet  she  tingled  to  remember  it. 

"And  you  think?"  Mr.  Clifford  asked,  laying  down  his 
newspaper  and  looking  very  grave. 

"I  don't  think;  I  know,"  his  wife  answered,  hastily.  "I 
was  wrong  the  other  day,  and  Elma's  in  love  with  that  young 
man,  Cyril  Waring.  I  know  more  than  that,  Reginald;  I  know 
you  may  crush  her;  I  know  you  may  kill  her;  but  if  you  don't 
want  to  do  that,  I  know  she  must  marry  him.  Whether  we 
wish  it,  or  whether  we  don't,  there's  nothing  else  to  be  done. 
As  things  stand  now,  it's  inevitable,  unavoidable.  She'll  never 
be  happy  wit^«  anybody  else — she  must  have  Aim — and  I,  for 
one,  won't  try  to  prevent  her." 

Mr.  Reginald  Clifford,  C.  M.  G.,  sometime  administrator  of 
the  Island  of  St.  Kitts,  gazed  at  his  wife  in  blank  astonishment. 
She  spoke  decidedly ;  he  had  never  he^rd  her  speak  with  such 


WHATS    IlREl)    IN    THE    HONE. 


53 


firmness  in  his  life  before.  It  fairly  took  his  breath  away. 
He  gazed  at  his  wife  blankly  as  he  repeated  to  himself  m 
very  slow  and  solemn  tones,  each  word  distinct,  "  You  for  one 
won't  try  to  prevent  her." 

"  No,  I  won't,"  Mrs.  Clifford  retorted,  defiantly,  assured  in 
her  own  mind  she  was  acting  right.  "  Elma  is  really  in  love 
with  him;  and  1  won't  let  Elma's  life  be  wrecked — as  some 
lives  h;ive  been  wrecked,  and  as  some  mothers  would  wreck  it." 

Mr.  Clifford  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  one  mass  of  astonish- 
ment, and  let  the  Japanese  paper-knife  he  was  holding  in  his 
right  hand  drop  clattering  from  his  fingers.  "  If  I  hadn't 
heard  you  say  it  yourself,  Louisa,"  he  answered,  with  a  gasp, 
"I  could  never  have  believed  it.  I  could — never — have — 
believed  it.  I  don't  believe  it  even  now.  It's  impossible, 
incredible." 

"  But  it's  true,"  Mrs.  Clifford  repeated.  "  Elma  must  marry 
the  man  she's  in  love  with." 

Meanwhile  poor  Elma  lay  alone  in  her  bedroom  upstairs, 
that  awful  sense  of  remorse  and  shame  still  making  her  cheeks 
tingle  with  unspeakable  horror.  Mrs.  Clifford  brought  up  her 
cup  of  tea  herself.  Elma  took  it  with  gratitude,  but  still 
never  dared  to  look  her  mo'ier  in  the  face.  Mrs.  Clifford, 
too,  kept  her  own  eyes  averted.  It  made  Elma's  self-abase- 
ment evei:  profounder  than  before  to  feel  that  her  mother 
instinctively  knew  everything. 

The  poor  child  lay  there  long,  with  a  burning  face  and  tin- 
gling ears,  too  ashamed  to  get  up  and  dress  herself  and  face 
the  outer  world,  too  ashamed  to  go  down  before  her  father's 
eyes,  till  long  after  lunch-time.  Then  there  came  a  noise  at 
the  door  once  more,  the  rustling  of  a  dress,  a  retreating  foot- 
step. Somebody  pushed  an  envelope  stealthily  under  the  door. 
Elma  picked  it  u[  and  examined  it  curiously.  It  bore  a  penny 
stamp,  and  the  local  postmark.  It  must  have  come,  then,  by 
the  two  o'clock  delivery,  without  a  doubt ;  but  the  address, 
why,  the  address  was  written  in  some  unknown  hand,  and  in 
printing  capitals  !  Elma  tore  it  open  with  a  beating  heart,  and 
read  the  one  line  of  manuscript  it  contained,  which  was  also 
written  in  the  same  print-like  letters. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  the  letter  said.  •*  It  will  do  you  no  harm. 
Resist  it  when  it  comes.  If  you  do  you  will  get  the  better 
of  it." 

Elma  looked  at  the  letter  over  and  over  again  in  a  fever  of 


64 


WHAT9  BUKD   IN    TIIK   HONK. 


(Hsin.iy.  She  was  certain  it  was  her  mother  iuul  written  that 
note.  Hut  she  read  it  with  tears,  only  half-reassured — and 
then  iMirnl  it  to  ashes,  and  proceeded  to  dress  herself. 

When  she  went  ilown  lo  the  drawinj^-rootn,  Mrs.  CMillord 
rose  frotn  her  seat,  and  look  her  hand  »n  her  own,  anil  kissed 
her  ow  c.fc  «"heek  as  if  nothin;;  out  of  the  connuon  hatl  hap- 
pened in  any  way.  The  talk  between  them  was  obtr'isively 
eonunonpKue.  Ilnl  all  thai  d.iy  lony^,  I'ilma  notieeil  her  mother 
was  far  teinlerer  to  h'V  than  nsnal ;  and  when  she  went  up  to 
I)ed,  Mrs.  ClilTord  helil  !ier  lingers  for  a  moment  with  a  j^cntlc 
pressure,  aiul  k'ss-ed  her  twiee  upon  her  eye.s,  and  stilled  a 
sijih,  and  then  broke  from  the  room  as  if  afraid  to  speak  to 
her. 


CHAPTER  X. 


COl.ONF.I.  KKLMSCOTT  S  KKPENTANCE. 


Klnia  ClilTord  wasn't  the  only  person  who  passed  a  terri- 
ble nijkiht,  anil  suffered  a  terrible  awakening  on  the  morninjj 
after  the  llolkeis'  garden  party.  C'olonel  Kelmseott,  too,  had 
his  bad  half-hour  or  so  before  he  fmally  fell  asleep;  and  he 
woke  up  j\ext  day  to  a  sense  of  shame  and  remorse  far  more 
defn-.ite.  and  therefore  more  poignant  and  more  real,  than 
KIma's. 

I!(.»ur  after  hour,  indeed,  he  lay  there  on  his  bed,  afraid  to 
toss  or  turn  lest  he  should  wake  Lady  Emily,  but  with  his 
limbs  all  'evered  and  his  throat  all  parched,  thinking  over  the 
strange  chance  that  had  thus  brought  him  face  to  face,  on  the 
tb.eshold  of  his  honored  age,  with  the  two  lads  he  had  wronged 
so  long  and  so  cruelly. 

The  shock  of  meeling  them  had  been  a  sudden  and  a  painful 
one.  To  be  sure,  the  Colonel  had  always  felt  the  time  might 
come  when  his  two  eldest  sons  would  cross  his  path  in  the 
intricate  ma/.e  of  London  society.  He  had  steeled  himself,  as 
he  thougl>,  to  meet  them  there  with  dignity  and  with  stoical 
reserve.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  that  if  e\er  the  names  he 
had  Miiposed  upon  them  were  to  fall  upon  his  startled  ears,  .10 
human  being  that  stooa  by  and  looked  on  should  note  for  one 
second  a  single  tremor  of  his  lips,  a  faint  shudder  of  surprise, 
ar.  almost  imperceptible  flush  or  pallor  on  his  impassive  coun- 


what's  hkeu  in  thii:  hons. 


65 


tenancc.  And  when  the  shock  camr,  indeed,  he  had  borne  it, 
as  he  meant  to  bear  it,  with  military  cahnness.  Not  even  Mrs. 
Chllord,  he  th()U;(ht,  could  have  discovered  from  any  under- 
tone of  his  voia;  or  mannj.'r  that  ihe  two  lads  he  received  with 
such  well-bred  unconcern  were  his  own  twin  sons,  the  true 
heirs  and  inheritors  of  the  'I'ilji^ate  I'ark  |)r(j|)<'rty. 


And  yet,  th 


had  taken  h 


lite  b 


lurprise, 
and  sliaken  him  far  more  than  he  could  eve  liave  conceivetl 
possible.  For  one  thinj^,  though  he  (|uite  expected  that  some 
day  lie  would  run  up  unawares  aj^ainst  (Juy  and  Cyril,  he  did 
no/  expect  it  would  be  down  in  the  country,  and  still  less 
within  a  few  miles'  drive  <jf  Til^^ate.  In  London,  of  course,  all 
thinJL^s  are  possible.  Sooner  or  later,  there,  everybody  hustles 
and  clashes  aj(ainst  everybtnly,  J'"or  that  reason  he  had  tried 
to  suj^gest,  by  indirect  means,  when  he  launched  them  on  the 
world,  that  the  twins  should  tempt  their  fortune  in  India 
or  the  colonics.  Ha  would  have  likeil  to  think  they  were 
well  out  of  his  way,  and  out  of  (Iranville's,  loo.  Hut,  a^^ainst 
his  advice,  they  had  .stayed  on  in  Knj^land.  .So  he  ex|)ected  to 
meet  them  some  day,  at  the  Academy  private  view,  perhaps, 
or  in  Mrs.  Houverie  liarton's  literary  saloon,  but  certainly  not 
on  the  clo.se  sward  of  the  Holkers'  lawn,  within  a  few  short 
miles  of  his  own  home  at  Tilj^ate. 

And  now  he  had  met  them,  his  conscience,  that  had  lain 
asleep  so  lonj^,  woke  up  of  a  sudden  with  a  terrible  start,  and 
bejian  to  prick  him  fiercely. 

If  only  they  had  been  ugly,  misshapen,  vulgar  ;  if  only  they 
had  spoken  with  coarse,  rough  voices,  or  irritated  him  by  their 
inferior  social  tone,  or  shown  themselves  unworthy  to  be  the 
heirs  of  Tilgate — why,  then  the  (  ilonel  might  possibly  have 
forgiven  himself!  Hut  to  see  his  own  two  sons,  the  sons  he 
had  never  set  eyes  on  for  twenty-fi  'e  years  or  more,  grown  up 
into  such  han^iisome,  well-set,  noble-looking  fellow.s — so  clever, 
so  bright,  so  able,  so  charming — to  feel  they  were  in  every 
way  as  much  gentlemen  born  as  (Jranville  himself,  and  to 
know  he  had  done  all  inree  an  irreparable  wrong — oh,  t/iat 
was  too  much  for  him!  For  he  had  kept  two  of  his  sons  out 
of  their  own  all  these  year.s,  only  in  order  to  make  the  position 
and  prospects  of  the  third,  at  last,  certainly  doubtful,  and  per- 
haps wretched. 

There  was  mucti  to  excuse  him  to  himself,  no  doubt,  he 
••vUd  to  his  own  soul  piteously  in  the  night  wfitches.     Proud 


56 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


•A 


;J 


■ 


« 
•        r   ' 


I  ,; 

5  'i 


:'( 


'  4 


i 


Iv 


man  as  he  was,  he  could  not  so  wholly  abase  himself  even  to 
his  inmost  self  as  to  admit  he  had  sinned  without  deep  provo- 
cation. He  thought  it  all  over  in  his  heart,  just  there,  exactly 
as  it  all  happened,  'hat  simple  and  natural  tale  of  a  common 
wrong,  that  terrib  J  secret  of  a  life-time  that  he  was  still  to 
repent  in  sackcloth  and  ashes. 

It  was  so  long  before — all  those  twenty-six  years,  or  was  it 
twenty-eight? — since  his  regiment  had  been  quartered  away 
down  in  Devonshire.  He  was  a  handsome  subaltern  then, 
with  a  frank,  open  face — Harry  Kelmscott,  of  the  Grays — 
just  such  another  man,  he  said  to  himself  in  his  remorse,  as 
his  son  Granville  now — or  rather,  perhaps,  as  Guy  and  Cyril 
Waring.  For  he  couldn't  conceal  from  himself  any  longer  the 
patent  fact  that  Lucy  Waring's  sons  were  like  his  own  old  self, 
and  sturdier,  handsomer  young  fellows  into  the  bargain  than 
Lady  Emily  Kelmscott's  boy  Granville,  whom  he  had  made 
into  the  heir  of  the  Tilgate  manors.  The  moor  where  the 
Grays  were  quartered  that  summer  was  as  dull  as  ditch-water 
— no  society,  no  dances,  no  hunting,  no  sport ;  what  wonder  a 
man  of  his  tastes,  spoiling  for  want  of  a  drawing-room  to  con- 
quer, should  have  kept  his  hand  in  with  pretty  Lucy  Waring  ? 

But  he  married  her — he  married  her.  He  did  her  no  wrong 
in  the  end.  He  hadn't  that  sin,  at  least,  to  lay  to  his  con- 
science. 

Ah,  well,  poor  Lucy!  he  had  really  been  fond  of  her;  as  fond 
as  a  Kelmscott  of  Tilgate  could  reasonably  be  expected  ever 
to  prove  toward  the  daughter  of  a  simple  Dartmoor  farmer. 
It  began  in  flirtation,  of  course,  as  such  things  will  begin ; 
and  it  ended,  as  they  will  end,  too,  in  love,  at  least  on  poor 
Lucy's  side;  for  what  can  you  expect  from  a  Kelmscott  of  Til- 
gate ?  And,  indeed,  indeed,  he  said  to  himself  earnestly,  he 
meant  her  no  harm,  though  he  seemed  at  times  to  be  cruel  to 
her.  As  soon  as  he  gathered  how  deeply  she  was  entangled 
— how  seriously  she  took  it  all — how  much  she  was  in  love 
with  him — he  tried  hard  to  break  it  off ;  he  tried  hard  to  put 
matters  to  her  in  their  proper  light ;  he  tried  to  show  her  that 
an  officer  and  a  gentleman,  a  Kelmscott  of  Tilgate,  could  never 
really  have  dreamed  of  marrying  the  half-educated,  half- 
peasant  daughter  of  a  Devonshire  farmer.  Though,  to  be 
sure,  she  was  a  lady  in  her  way,  too,  poor  Lucy;  as  much  of  a 
lady  in  manner  and  in  heart  as  Emily  herself,  whose  father 
was  an  earl,  and  whose  mother  was  a  marquis'  eldest  daughter. 


,1 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE  BONE. 


67 


So  much  a  lady  in  her  way,  in  deed,  in  thought,  and  all  that 

—  one  of  nature's  gentlewomen  —  that  when  Lucy  cried  and 
broke  her  heart  at  his  halting  explanations,  he  was  unmanned 
by  her  sobs,  and  did  a  thing  no  Kelmscott  of  Tilgate  should 
ever  have  stooped  to  do  —  yes,  promised  to  marry  her.  Of 
course,  he  didn't  attempt  in  his  own  heart  to  justify  that  initial 
folly,  as  he  thought  it,  to  himsplf.  He  didn't  pretend  to  con- 
done it.  He  only  allowed  he  had  acted  like  a  fool.  A  Kelm- 
scott of  Tilgate  should  have  drawn  back  long  before,  or  else, 
having  gone  so  far,  should  have  told  the  girl  plainly  (at  what- 
ever cost  —  to  hei)  he  could  go  no  further,  and  have  no  more 
to  say  to  her. 

To  be  sure,  that  would  have  killed  the  poor  thing  outright. 
But  a  Kelmscott,  you  know,  should  respect  his  order,  and 
shouldn't  shrink  for  a  moment  from  these  trifling  sacrifices  ! 

However,  his  own  heart  was  better  (in  those  days)  than  his 
class  philosophy.  He  couldn't  trample  on  poor  Lucy  Waring. 
So  he  made  a  fool  of  himself  in  the  end  —  and  married  Lucy. 
Ah,  well  !  ah,  well  !  every  man  makes  a  fool  of  himself  once 
or  twice  in  his  life;  and  though  the  Colonel  was  ashamed  now 
of  having  so  far  bemeaned  his  order  as  to  marry  the  girl,  why, 
if  the  truth  must  out,  he  would  have  been  more  ashamed  still, 
in  his  heart  of  hearts,  even  then,  if  he  hadn't  married  her. 
He  was  better  than  his  creed.  He  could  never  have  crushed 
her. 

Married  her,  yes;  but  not  publicly,  of  course.  At  least,  he 
respected  public  decency.  He  married  her  under  his  own 
name,  to  be  sure,  but  by  special  license,  and  at  a  remote  little 
village  on  the  far  side  of  tlic  moor,  where  nobody  knew  either 
himself  or  Lucy.  In  those  days,  he  hadn't  yet  come  into  pos- 
session of  the  Tilgate  estates;  and  if  his  father  had  known  of 
it  —  well,  the  Admiral  was  such  a  despotic  old  man  that  he'd 
have  insisted  on  his  son  selling  out  at  once,  and  going  off  to 
Australia,  or  heaven  knows  where,  on  a  journey  round  the 
world,  and  breaking  poor  Lucy's  heart  by  his  absence.  Partly 
for  her  sake,  the  Colonel  said  to  himself  now  in  the  silent 
night,  and  partly  for  his  own,  he  had  concealed  the  marriage 

—  for  the  time  being  —  from  the  Admiral. 

And  then  came  that  horrible  embroilment  —  oh,  how  well 
he  remembered  it !     Ah,  me  !  ah,  me  !  it  seemed  but  yesterday 

—  when  his  father  insisted  h(;  was  to  marry  Lady  Kmily  Croke, 
Lord  Aldeburgh's  daughter;  and  he  dared  not  marry  her,  of 


■? 


58 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE   BONE, 


>,  i 


II 


H 


i  i 


> , 


;! 


f 


ill 


i     1 


course,  having  a  wife  already,  and  he  dared  not  tell  his  father, 
on  the  other  hand,  why  he  couldn't  marry  her.  It  was  a  hate- 
ful time.  He  shrunk  from  recalling  it.  He  was  keeping  Lucy, 
then  his  own  wedded  wife,  as  Mrs.  Waring,  in  small  rooms  in 
Plymouth;  and  yet  he  was  running  up  to  town  now  and  again, 
on  leave,  as  the  gay  young  bachelor,  the  heir  of  Tilgate  Park 

—  and  meeting  Emily  Crokeat  every  party  he  went  to  in  Lon- 
don —  and  braving  the  Admiral's  wrath  by  refusing  to  propose 
to  her.  What  he  would  ever  have  done  if  Lucy  had  lived,  he 
couldn't  imagine.  But,  there  I  Lucy  dtc//i'f  live;  so  he  was 
saved  that  bother.  Poor  child  !  it  brought  tears  to  his  eyes 
even  now  to  think  of  her.  He  brushed  them  furtively  away, 
lest  he  should  waken  Lady  Emily. 

And  yet  it  was  a  shock  to  him,  the  night  Lucy  died.  Just 
then,  he  could  hardly  realize  how  lucky  was  the  accident.  He 
sat  there  by  her  side,  the  day  the  twins  were  born,  to  see  her 
safely  through  her  trouble;  for  he  hyd  always  done  his  duty, 
after  a  fashion,  by  Lucy.  When  a  girl  of  that  class  marries  a 
gentleman  (don't  you  see),  and  consents,  too,  mind  you,  to 
marry  him  privately,  she  can't  expect  to  share  much  of  her 
husband's  company.  She  can't  expect  he  should  stultify  him- 
self by  acknowledging  her  publicly  before  his  own  class.  And, 
indeed,  he  always  meant  to  acknowledge  her  in  the  end  — 
after  his  father's  death,  when  there  was  no  fear  of  the  Admi- 
ral's cutting  off  his  allowance. 

But  how  curiously  events  often  turn  out  of  themselves.  The 
twins  were  born  on  a  Friday  morning,  and  by  the  Saturday 
night  poor  Lucy  was  lying  dead,  a  pale,  sweet  corpse,  in  her 
own  little  room,  near  the  Hoe,  at  Plymouth.  It  was  a  happy 
release  for  him,  though  he  really  loved  her.  But  still,  when  a 
man's  fool  enough  to  love  a  girl  below  his  own  station  in  life 

—  the  Colonel  paused  and  broke  off.  It  was  twenty-seven 
years  ago  now,  yet  he  really  loved  her.  He  couldn't  find  it  in 
his  heart  even  then  to  indorse  to  the  full  the  common  philos- 
ophy of  his  own  order. 

So  there  he  was  left  with  the  two  boys  on  his  hands,  but 
free,  if  he  liked,  to  marry  Lady  Emily.  No  reason  on  earth, 
of  course,  why  he  shouldn't  marry  her  now.  So,  naturally,  he 
married  her — after  a  fortnight's  interval.  The  Admiral  was 
all  smiles  and  paternal  blessings  at  this  sudden  change  of 
front  on  his  son's  part.  Why  the  dickens  Harry  hadn't  wanted 
to  marry  the  girl  before,  to  be  sure,  he  couldn't  conceive;  hank- 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


59 


ering  after  some  missy  in  the  country,  he  supposed;  that  silly 
rot  about  what  they  call  love,  no  doubt;  but  now  that  Harry 
had  come  to  his  senses  at  last,  and  taken  the  earl's  lass,  why, 
the  Admiral  was  indulgence  and  munificence  itself;  the  young 
people  should  have  an  ample  allowance,  and  my  daughter-in- 
law.  Lady  Emily,  should  live  on  the  best  that  Tilgate  and 
Chetwood  could  possibly  afford  her. 

What  would  you  have?  the  Colonel  asked,  piteously,  in  the 
dead  of  night,  of  his  own  conscience.  How  else  could  he  have 
acted?  He  said  nothing.  That  was  all,  mind  you,  he  declared 
to  himself  more  than  once  in  his  own  soul.  He  told  no  lies. 
He  made  no  complications.  While  the  Admiral  lived,  he 
brought  up  Lucy's  sons,  quite  privately,  at  Plymouth.  And 
so  soon  as  ever  the  Admiral  died,  he  really  and  truly  meant  to 
acknowledge  them. 

But  fathers  never  die — in  entailed  estates.  The  Admiral 
lived  so  long — quite,  quite  too  long  for  Guy  and  Cyril. 
Granville  was  born,  and  grew  to  be  a  big  boy,  and  was  treated 
by  everybody  as  the  heir  to  Tilgate.  And  now  the  Colonel's 
difficulties  gathered  thicker  around  him.  At  last,  in  the  full- 
ness of  time,  the  Admiral  died,  and  slept  with  his  fathers, 
whose  Elizabethan  ruffs  were  the  honor  and  glory  of  the  chan- 
cel at  Tilgate;  and  then  the  day  of  reckoning  was  fairly  upon 
him.  How  well  he  remembered  that  awful  hour.  He  couldn't, 
he  couldn't.  He  knew  it  was  his  duty  to  acknowledge  his 
rightful  sons  and  heirs,  but  he  hadn't  the  courage.  Things 
had  all  altered  so  much. 

Meanwhile,  Guy  and  Cyril  had  gone  to  Charterhouse  as 
nobody's  wards,  and  been  brought  up  in  the  expectation  of 
earning  their  own  livelihood;  so  no  wrong,  he  said,  casuistic- 
ally,  had  been  done  to  theniy  at  any  rate.  And  Granville  had 
been  brought  up  as  the  heir  of  Tilgate.  Lady  Emily  naturally 
expected  her  son  to  succeed  his  father.  He  had  gone  too  far 
to  turn  back  at  last.     And  yet — 

And  yet,  in  his  own  heart,  disguise  it  as  he  might,  he  knew 
he  was  keeping  his  lawful  sons  out  of  their  own  in  the  end, 
and  it  was  his  duty  to  acknowledge  them  as  the  heirs  of  Til- 
gate. 


■I 


■I 


n  K 


I*. 


.1  i  < 


■'i' 


I  ' 


EM 


60  what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

A    FAMILY    JAR. 

Hour  after  hour  the  unhappy  man  lay  still  as  de.':th  on  his 
bed,  and  reasoned  in  vain  with  his  accusing  conscience.  To 
be  sure,  he  said  to  himself,  no  man  was  bound  by  the  law  of 
England  to  name  his  heir.  It  is  for  the  eldest  son  himself  to 
come  forward  and  make  his  claim.  If  Guy  and  Cyril  could 
prove  their  title  to  the  Tilgate  estates  when  he  himself  was 
dead,  that  was  their  private  business.  He  wasn't  bound  to 
do  anything  special  to  make  the  way  easy  for  them  before- 
hand. 

But  still,  when  he  saw  them,  his  heart  arose  and  smote  him. 
His  very  class  prejudices  fought  hard  on  their  behalf.  These 
men  were  gentlemen,  the  eldest  sons  of  a  Kelmscott  of  Tilgate 
— true  Kelmscotts  to  the  core — handsome,  courtly,  erect  of 
bearing.  Guy  was  the  very  image  of  the  Kelmscott  of  Tilgate 
Park  who  bled  for  King  Charles  at  Marston  Moor;  Cyril  had 
the  exact  mien  of  Sir  Rupert  Kelmscott,  Knight  of  Chetwood, 
the  ablest  of  their  race,  whose  portrait,  by  Kneller,  hung  in  the 
great  hall  between  his  father,  the  Admiral,  and  his  uncle,  Sir 
Frederick.  They  had  all  the  qualities  the  Colonel  himself 
associated  with  the  Kelmscott  name.  They  were  strong,  brave, 
vigorous,  able  to  hold  their  own  against  all  comers.  To  leave 
them  out  in  the  cold  was  not  only  wrong — it  was  also,  he  felt 
in  his  heart  of  hearts,  a  treason  to  his  order. 

At  last,  after  long  watching,  he  fell  asleep;  but  he  slept 
uneasily.  When  he  awoke,  it  was  with  a  start.  He  found  him- 
self murmuring  to  himself  in  his  troubled  sleep,  "Break  the 
entail,  and  settle  a  sum  on  the  two  that  will  quiet  them." 

It  was  the  only  way  left  to  prevent  public  scandal,  and  to 
save  Lady  Emily  and  his  son  Granville  from  a  painful  dis- 
closure; while,  at  the  same  time,  it  would  to  some  extent  sat- 
isfy the  claims  of  his  conscience. 

Compromise,  compromise;  there's  nothing  like  compromise. 
Colonel  Kelmscott  had  always  had  by  temperament  a  truly 
British  love  of  compromise. 

To  carry  out  his  plan,  indeed,  it  would  be  necessary  to  break 
the  entail  twice — once  formally,  and  once  again  really.    He 


what's  trkd  in  the  bone. 


61 


I  i 


must  begin  by  getting  Granville's  consent  to  the  proposed 
arrangement,  so  as  to  raise  ready  money'with  which  to  bribe 
the  young  men;  and  as  soon  as  Granville's  consent  was 
obtained,  he  must  put  it  plainly  to  Guy  and  Cyril,  as  an 
anonymous  benefactor,  that  if  they  would  consent  to  accept 
a  fixed  sum  in  lieu  of  all  contingencies,  then  the  secret  of  their 
birth  would  be  revealed  to  them  at  last,  and  they  would  be 
asked  to  break  the  entail  on  the  estates  as  eldest  sons  of  a 
gentleman  of  property. 

It  was  a  hard  bargain — a  very  hard  bargain;  but  then  these 
boys  would  jump  at  it.  no  dou^*' ;  expectmg  nothing,  as  they 
did,  they'd  certainly  jump  at  it.  It's  a  great  point,  you  see,  to 
come  in  suddenly,  when  you  expect  nothing,  to  a  nice  lump 
sum  of  five  or  six  thousand! 

So  much  so,  indeed,  that  the  real  difficulty,  he  thought, 
would  rather  lie  in  approaching  Granville. 

After  breakfast  that  morning,  however,  he  tapped  his  son 
on  the  shoulder  as  he  was  leaving  the  table,  and  said  to  him, 
in  his  distinctly  business  tone,  "  Granville,  will  you  step  with 
me  into  the  library  for  ten  minutes'  talk?  There's  a  small 
matter  of  the  estate  I  desire  to  discuss  with  you." 

Granville  looked  back  at  him  with  a  curiously  amused  air. 

"  Why,  yes,"  he  said,  shortly.  "  It's  a  very  odd  coincidence; 
but,  do  you  know,  I  was  going  this  morning  myself  to  ask  for 
a  chance  of  ten  minutes'  talk  with  you." 

He  rose,  and  followed  his  father  into  the  oak-paneled 
library.  The  Colonel  sat  down  on  one  of  the  uncomfortable 
library  chairs,  especially  designed,  with  their  knobs  and 
excrescences,  to  prevent  the  bare  possibility  of  serious  study. 
Granville  took  a  seat  opposite  him,  across  the  formal  oak 
table.  Colonel  Kelmscott  paused,  and  cleared  his  throat 
nervously.  Then,  with  military  promptitude,  he  darted 
straight  into  the  very  thick  of  the  fray, 

"Granville,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "I  want  to  speak  with  you 
about  a  rather  big  affair.  The  fact  of  it  i.s,  I'm  going  to  break 
the  entail.     I  want  to  raise  some  money." 

The  son  gave  a  little  start  of  surprise  and  amusement. 
"Why,  this  is  very  odd,"  he  exclaimed  once  more,  in  an 
astonished  tone.  "  That's  just  the  precise  thing  I  wanted  to 
talk  about  with  you." 

Colonel  Kelmscott  eyed  him  with  an  answering  start. 

**Not  debtsl"  be  said,  slowly.     "My  boy,  my  boy,  this 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


,' 


\ 


'  i 


u 


It 


:;! 


:'} 


is  bad.  Not  debts,  surely,  Granville;  I  never  suspected 
it." 

"  Oh,  dear,  noi  "  Granville  answered,  frankly.  "  No  debts, 
you  may  be  sure.  But  I  wanted  to  feel  myself  on  a  satisfac- 
tory basis — as  to  income,  and  so  forth;  and  I  was  prepared  to 
pay  for  my  freedom  well.  To  tell  you  the  truth  outright,  1 
want  to  marry." 

Colonel  Kelmscott  eyed  him  close,  with  a  very  puzzled  look. 
"Not  Elma  Clifford,  my  boy,"  he  said  again,  quickly;  "for 
of  course,  if  it  is  her,  Granville,  I  need  hardly  say — " 

The  young  man  cut  him  short  with  a  hasty  little  laugh. 
"  Elma  Clifford,"  he  repeated,  with  some  scorn  in  his  musical 
voice;  "oh,  dear,  no;  not  Aer.  If  it  had  been  her,  you  may 
be  sure  there'd  be  no  reason  of  any  sort  for  breaking  the 
entail.  But  the  fact  is  this:  I  dislike  allowances  one  way  or 
the  other.  I  want  to  feel  once  for  all  I'm  my  own  master.  I 
want  to  marry — not  this  girl  or  that,  but  whomsoever  I  will. 
I  don't  care  to  come  to  you  with  my  hat  in  my  hand,  asking 
how  much  you'll  be  kind  enough  to  allow  me  if  I  venture  to 
take  Miss  So-and-so  or  Miss  What-you-may-call-it.  And  as 
I  know  you  want  money  yourself  for  this  new  wing  you're 
thinking  of,  why,  I'm  prepared  to  break  the  entail  at  once, 
and  sell  whatever  building-land  you  think  right  and  proper." 

The  father  held  his  breath.  What  on  earth  could  this 
mean?  "And  who  is  the  girl,  Granville?"  he  asked,  with 
unconcealed  interest. 

"You  won't  care  to  hear,"  his  son  answered,  carelessly. 

Colonel  Kelmscott  looked  across  at  him  with  a  very  red 
face.  "  Not  some  girl  who'll  bring  disgrace  upon  your 
mother,  I  hope?"  he  said,  with  a  half-pang  of  remorse, 
remembering  Lucy.  "  Not  some  young  woman  beneath  your 
own  station  in  life? "  For  to  that,  you  may  be  sure,  I'll  never 
consent  under  any  circumstances." 

Granville  drew  himself  up  proudly,  with  a  haughty  smile. 
He  was  a  Kelmscott,  too,  as  arrogant  as  the  best  of  them. 

"  No,  that's  not  the  difficulty,"  he  answered,  looking  rather 
amused  than  annoyed  or  frightened.  "  My  tastes  are  not  low. 
I  hope  I  know  better  than  to  disgrace  my  family.  The  lady  I 
want  to  marry,  and  for  whose  sake  I  wish  you  to  make  some 
arrangement  beforehand,  is — don't  be  surprised — well,  Gwen- 
doline Gildersleeve." 

"  Gwendoline  Gildersleeve! "  his  father  echoed,  astonished, 


1 

•■ak 


i 


WHAT'S  BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


08 


for  there  was  feud  between  the  families.  "  That  rascally, 
land-grabbing  barrister's  daughter!  Why,  how  on  earth  do 
you  come  to  know  anything  of  her,  Granville?  Nobody  in 
Surrey  ever  had  the  impertinence  yet  to  ask  me  or  mine  to 
meet  the  Gildersleeves  anywhere,  since  that  disgraceful 
behavior  of  his  about  the  boundary  fences;  and  I  didn't  sup- 
pose you'd  ever  seen  her. 

"Nobody  in  Surrey  ever  did  ask  me  to  meet  her,"  Granville 
answered,  somewhat  curtly.  "  But  you  can't  expect  everyone 
in  London  society  to  keep  watch  over  the  quarrels  of  every 
country  parish  in  provincial  England.  It  wouldn't  be  reason- 
able. I  met  Gwendoline,  if  you  want  to  know,  at  the  Ber- 
trams, in  Berkeley  Square,  and  she  and  I  got  on  so  well 
together  that  we've — well,  we've  met  from  time  to  time  in 
the  park,  since  our  return  from  town,  and  we  think  by  this 
time  we  may  consider  ourselves  informally  engaged  to  one 
another." 

Colonel  Kelmscott  gazed  at  his  son  in  a  perfect  excess  of 
indignant  amazement.  Gilbert  Gildersleeve's  daughter!  That 
rascally  Q.  C.'s!  At  any  other  moment  such  a  proposal  would 
have  driven  him  forthwith  into  open  hostilities.  If  Granville 
chose  to  marry  a  girl  like  that,  why,  Granville  might  have 
lived  on  what  his  father  would  allow  him. 

Just  now,  however,  with  this  keen  fit  of  remorse  quite  fresh 
upon  his  soul  about  poor  Lucy's  sons.  Colonel  Kelmscott  was 
almost  disposed  to  accept  the  opening  thus  laid  before  him  by 
Granville's  proposal. 

So  he  temporized  for  awhile,  nursing  his  chin  with  his  hand, 
and  then,  after  much  discussion,  yielded  at  last  a  conditional 
consent — conditional  upon  their  mutual  agreement  as  to  the 
terms  on  which  the  entail  was  to  be  finally  broken. 

"And  what  sort  of  arrangement  do  you  propose  I  should 
make  for  your  personal  maintenance,  and  this  Gildersleeve 
girl's  household?"  the  Colonel  asked  at  length,  with  a  very 
red  face,  descending  to  details. 

His  son,  without  appearing  to  notice  the  implied  slight  to 
Gwendoline,  named  the  terms  that  he  thought  would  satisfy  him. 

"  That's  a  very  stiff  sum,"  the  master  of  Tilgate  retorted; 
J* but  perhaps  I  could  manage  it;  p.r — haps  I  could  manage 
it.  We  must  sell  the  Dowland  farms  at  once,  that's  certain; 
and  I  must  take  the  twelve  thousand  or  so  the  land  will  fetch 
for  my  own  use,  absolutely  and  without  restriction.' 


>• 


64 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


^  i 


i 


u 


'i> 


n 


H 


u 


"To  build  the  new  wing  with?"  the  son  put  in,  with  a 
gesture  of  assent. 

"  To  build  the  new  wing  with?  Why,  certainly  not,"  his 
father  answered,  angerly.  "Am  I  to  bargain  with  my  son  what 
use  I'm  to  make  of  my  own  property?  Mark  my  words,  I 
won't  submit  to  interference.  To  do  precisely  as  I  choose 
with,  sir.  To  roll  in,  if  I  like!  To  fling  into  the  sea,  if  the 
fancy  takes  me!" 

Granville  Kelmscott  stared  hard  at  him.  Twelve  thousand 
pounds!  What  on  earth  could  his  father  mean  by  this  whim? 
he  wondered.  "  Twelve  thousand  pounds  is  a  very  big  sum 
to  fling  away  from  the  estate  without  a  question  asked,"  he 
retorted,  growing  hot.  "  It  seems  to  me  you  too  closely  resem- 
ble our  ancestors  who  came  over  from  Holland.  In  matters 
of  business,  you  know,  the  fault  of  the  Dutch  is  giving  too 
little  and  asking  too  much." 

His  father  glared  at  him.  That's  the  worst  of  this  huckster- 
ing and  higgling  with  your  own  flesh  and  blood.  You  have 
to  put  up  with  such  intolerable  insults.  But  he  controlled 
himself,  and  continued.  The  longer  he  talked,  however,  the 
hotter  and  angrier  he  became  by  degrees.  And  what  made 
him  the  hottest  and  angriest  of  all  was  the  knowledge  mean- 
while that  he  was  doing  it  every  bit  for  Granville's  own  sake; 
nay,  more,  that  consideration  for  Granville  alone  had  brought 
him  originally  into  this  peck  of  trouble. 

At  last  he  could  contain  himself  with  indignation  no  longer. 
His  temper  broke  down.  He  flared  up  and  out  with  it.  "  Take 
care  what  you  do!"  he  cried.  "  Take  care  what  you  say,  Gran- 
ville! I'm  not  going  to  be  bearded  with  impunity  in  my  den. 
If  you  press  me  too  hard,  remember,  I'll  ruin  all.  I  can  cut 
you  off  with  a  shilling,  sir,  if  I  choose — cut  you  oflf  with  a 
shilling!  Yes,  and  do  justice  to  others  I've  wronged  for  your 
sake!  Don't  provoke  me  too  far,  I  say!  If  you  do,  you'll 
repent  it." 

"Cut  me  off  with  a  shilling,  sir!  "  his  son  answered,  angrily, 
rising,  and  staring  hard  at  him.  "  Why,  what  do  you  mean  by 
that?  You  know  you  can't  do  it.  My  interest  in  the  estate's 
as  good  as  your  own.     I'm  the  eldest  son — " 

He  broke  off  suddenly;  for  at  those  fatal  words  Colonel 
Kelmscott's  face,  fiery  red  till  then,  grew  instantly  blanched 
and  white  with  terror.  "Oh,  what  have  I  done?"  the  unhappy 
man  cried,  seeing  his  son's  eyes  read  some  glimpse  of  the  truth 


il'. 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE    DONE.  fp 

too  clearly  in  his  looic.  •'  Oh,  what  have  I  said?  Forget  it, 
Granny,  forget  it!  I  didn't  mean  to  go  so  far  as  I  did  in  my 
anger.  I  was  a  fool — a  fool!  I  gave  way  too  much.  For 
heaven's  sake,  my  boy,  forget  it,  forget  it!" 

The  young  man  looked  across  at  him  with  a  dazed  and 
puzzled  look,  yet  very  full  of  meaning.  '*  1  shall  never  forget 
it,"  he  said,  slowly.  "  I  shall  learn  what  it  means.  I  don't 
know  how  things  stand;  but  I  see  you  meant  it.  Do  as  you 
like  about  the  entail.  It's  no  business  of  mine.  Take  your 
pound  of  flesh,  your  twelve  thousand  down,  and  pay  your  hush- 
money!  1  don't  know  whom  you  bribe,  and  1  have  nothing  to 
say  to  it.  I  never  dragged  the  honor  of  the  Kelmscotts  in  the 
dust.  I  won't  drag  it  now.  I  wash  my  hands  clean  from  it. 
I  ask  no  questions.  I  demand  no  explanations.  I  only  say 
this:  Until  I  know  what  you  mean — know  whether  I'm  law- 
ful heir  to  Tilgatc  Park  or  not — 1  won't  marry  the  girl  I  meant 
to  marry.  I  have  too  much  regard  for  her,  and  for  the  honor 
of  our  house,  to  take  her  on  what  may  prove  to  be  false  expec- 
tations. Break  the  entail,  I  say!  Raise  your  twelve  thou- 
sand! Pay  off  your  bloodhounds!  IJut  never  expect  me  to 
touch  a  penny  of  your  money,  henceforth  and  forever,  till  I 
know  whether  it  was  yours  and  mine  at  all  to  deal  with." 

Colonel  Kelmscott  bent  down  his  proud  head  meekly.  "As 
you  will,  Granville,"  he  answered,  quite  broken  with  remorse 
and  silenced  by  shame.  "My  boy,  my  boy,  I  only  wanted  to 
save  you ! " 

CHAPTER  XII. 

IN    SILENCE   AND   TEARS. 


When  he  had  time  to  think.  Colonel  Kelmscott  determined 
in  his  own  mind  that  he  would  still  do  his  best  to  save  Gran- 
ville, whether  Granville  himself  wished  it  or  otherwise.  So 
he  proceeded  to  take  all  the  necessary  steps  for  breaking  the 
entail,  and  raising  the  money  he  needed  for  Guy  and  Cyril. 

In  all  this  Granville  neither  acquiesced  nor  dissented.  He 
signed  mechanically  whatever  documents  his  father  presented 
to  him,  and  he  stood  by  his  bargain  with  a  certain  sullen, 
undeviating,  hard-featured  loyalty;  but  he  never  forgot  those 
few  angry  words  in  which  his  father  had  half  let  out  his  long- 
guarded  life-secret. 


WW 

I'    ♦.' 


66 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


I 
•t" 


1' 


;■ 


' 


;t 


ll. 


M 


i 

i 


Thinking  the  matter  over  continually  with  himself,  how- 
ever, he  came  in  the  end  to  the  natural  conclusion  that  one 
explanation  alone  would  fit  all  the  facts.  He  was  not  his 
father's  eldest  son  at  all.  Colonel  Kelmscott  must  have  been 
married  to  someone  else  before  his  marriage  with  Lady  Emily. 
That  someone  else's  son  was  the  real  heir  of  Tilgate.  And  it 
was  to  him  that  his  father,  in  his  passionate  penitence,  pro- 
posed after  many  years  to  do  one-sided  justice.  Now  Gran- 
ville Kelmscott,  though  a  haughty  and  somewhat  headstrong 
fellow,  after  the  fashion  of  his  race,  was  a  young  man  of  prin- 
ciple and  of  honor.  The  moment  this  hideous  doubt  occurred 
to  his  mind  he  couldn't  rest  in  his  bed  till  he  had  cleared  it  all 
up  and  settled  it  forever,  one  way  or  the  other.  If  Tilgate 
wasn't  his  by  law  and  right,  he  wanted  none  of  it.  If  his 
father  was  trying  to  buy  off  the  real  heir  to  the  estate  with  a 
pitiful  pittance,  in  order  to  preserve  the  ill-gotten  remainder 
for  Lady  Emily's  son,  why,  Granville  for  his  part  would  be  no 
active  party  to  such  a  miserable  compromise.  If  some  other 
man  was  the  Colonel's  lawful  heir,  let  that  other  man  take 
the  property  and  enjoy  it;  but  he,  Granville  Kelmscott,  would 
go  forth  upon  the  world,  an  honest  adventurer,  to  seek  his 
fortune  with  his  own  right  hand  wherever  he  might  find  it. 

Still,  he  could  take  no  active  step,  on  the  other  hand,  to 
hunt  up  the  truth  about  the  Colonel's  real  or  supposed  first 
marriage,  for  here  an  awful  dilemma  blocked  the  way  before 
him.  If  the  Colonel  had  married  before,  and  if  by  that  former 
marriage  he  had  a  son  or  sons,  how  could  Granville  be  sure 
the  supposed  first  wife  was  dead  before  the  second  was  mar- 
ried ?  And  supposing,  for  a  moment,  she  was  not  dead — sup- 
posing his  father  had  bee-;  even  more  criminal  and  more 
unjust  than  he  at  first  imagined — how  could  he  take  the  initi- 
ative himself  in  showing  that  his  own  mother,  Lady  Emily 
Kelmscott,  was  no  wife  at  all  in  the  sight  of  the  law  ?  that 
some  other  woman  was  his  father's  lawful  consort?  The  bare 
possibility  of  such  an  issue  was  so  horrible  for  any  son  on 
earth  to  face  undismayed.  So,  tortured  and  distracted  by  his 
divided  duty,  Granville  Kelmscott  shrunk  alike  from  action  or 
inaction. 

In  the  midst  of  such  doubts  and  difficulties,  however,  one 
duty  shone  out  clear  as  day  before  him.  Till  the  mystery 
was  cleared  up,  till  the  problem  was  solved,  he  must  see  no 
more  of  Gwendoline  Gildersleeve.    He  had  engaged  himself 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


07 


to  her  as  the  heir  of  Tilgate.  She  had  accepted  him  under 
that  guise,  and  looked  forward  to  an  early  and  happy  mar- 
riage. Now  all  was  changed.  He  was,  or  might  be,  a  beggar 
and  an  outcast.  To  be  sure,  he  knew  Gwendoline  loved  him 
for  himself;  but  how  could  he  marry  her  if  he  didn't  even 
know  he  had  anything  of  his  own  in  the  world  to  marry  upon  ? 
The  park  and  fallow  deer  had  been  a  part  of  himself;  without 
them  he  felt  he  was  hardly  even  a  Kelmscott.  It  was  his 
plain  duty,  now,  for  Gwendoline's  sake,  to  release  her  from 
her  promise  to  a  man  who  might  perhaps  be  penniless,  and 
who  couldn't  even  feel  sure  he  was  the  lawful  son  of  his  own 
father.  And  yet  —  for  Lady  Emily's  sake  —  he  mustn't  hint, 
even  to  Gwendoline,  the  real  reason  which  moved  him  to  offer 
her  this  release.  He  must  throw  himself  upon  her  mercy,  with- 
out cause  assigned,  and  ask  her  for  the  time  being  to  have 
faith  in  him  and  to  believe  him. 

So  a  day  or  two  after  the  interview  with  his  father  in  the 
library,  the  self-disinherited  heir  of  Tilgate  took  the  path 
through  the  glade  that  led  into  the  dell  beyond  the  boundary 
fence  —  that  dell  which  had  once  been  accounted  a  component 
part  of  Tilgate  Park,  but  which  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  had 
proved,  in  his  cold-blooded,  documentary,  legal  way,  to  belong 
in  reality  to  the  grounds  of  Woodlands.  It  was  in  the  dell 
that  Granville  sometimes  ran  up  against  Gwendoline.  He  sat 
down  on  the  broken  ledge  of  ironstone  that  overhung  the  little 
brook.  It  was  eleven  o'clock  gone.  By  eleven  o'clock,  three 
mornings  in  the  week,  chance  —  pure  chance  —  the  patron  god 
of  lovers,  brought  Gwendoline  into  the  dell  to  meet  him. 

Presently  a  light  footfall  rang  soft  upon  the  path,  and  next 
moment  a  tall  and  beautiful  girl,  with  a  wealth  of  auburn  hair, 
and  a  bright  color  in  her  cheeks,  tripped  lightly  down  the 
slope,  as  if  strolling  through  the  wood  in  maiden  meditation, 
fancy  free,  unexpecting  anyone. 

"What,  you  here,  Mr.  Kelmscott?"  she  exclaimed,  as  she 
saw  him,  her  pink  cheek  deepening  as  she  spoke  to  a  still  pro- 
founder  crimson. 

"  Yes,  I'm  here,  Gwendoline,"  Granville  Kelmscott  answered, 
with  a  smile  of  recognition  at  her  maidenly  pretense  of  an 
undesigned  coincidence.  "And  I'm  here,  to  say  the  truth, 
because  I  quite  expected  this  morning  to  meet  you." 

He  took  her  hand  gravely.  Gwendoline  let  her  eyes  fall 
modestly  on  the  ground,  as  if  some  warmer  greeting  were  more 


w 


It 


G8 


what's  paed  in  the  bonh. 


often  bestowed  between  them.  The  young  man  blushed  with 
a  certain  manly  shame.  "  No,  not  to-day,  dear,"  he  said  with 
an  effort,  as  she  held  her  cheek  aside,  half-courting  and  half- 
deprecating  the  expected  kiss.  "Oh,  Owendoline,  1  don't  know 
how  to  begin  —  I  don't  know  how  to  say  it ;  but  I've  got  very 
sad  news  for  you-  news  that  I  can't  bear  to  break  —  that  I 
can't  venture  to  explain  —  that  1  don't  even  properly  under- 
stand myself.  I  must  throw  myself  upon  your  faith.  I  must 
just  ask  you  to  trust  mv'." 

Gwendoline  let  him  seat  her,  unresisting,  upon  the  ledge  by 
his  side,  and  her  cheeks  grew  suddenly  ashy  pale  as  she 
answered,  with  a  gasp,  forgetting  the  "  Mr  Kelmscott"  at  this 
sudden  leap  into  the  stern  realities  of  life,  "  Why,  Granville, 
what  do  you  mean  ?  You  know  1  can  trust  you.  You  ktiow, 
whatever  it  may  be,  I  believe  you  implicitly." 

The  young  man  took  her  hand  in  his  with  a  tender  pressure. 
It  was  a  terrible  message  to  have  to  deliver,  lit  bunglcil  and 
blundered  on,  with  many  twists  and  turns,  through  some  in- 
articulate attempt  at  an  indefinite  explanation.  It  wasn't  that 
he  didn't  love  her  —  oh,  devotedly,  eternally  !  she  must  know 
that  well;  she  never  could  doubt  it.  It  wasn't  that  any 
shadow  had  arisen  between  him  and  her;  it  wasn't  anything 
he  could  speak  about,  or  anything  she  must  say  to  any  soul  on 
earth  —  oh,  for  his  mother's  sake,  he  hoped  and  trusted  she 
would  religiously  keep  his  secret  inviolate!  But  something 
had  happened  to  him  within  the  last  few  days  —  something 
unspeakable,  indefinite,  uncertain,  vague,  yet  very  full  of  the 
most  drer.dful  possibilities;  something  that  might  make  him 
unable  to  support  a  wife;  something  that  at  least  must  delay 
or  postpone  for  an  unknown  time  the  long-hoped-for  prospect 
of  his  claiming  her  and  marrying  her.  Some  day,  perhaps  — 
he  broke  off  suddenly,  and  looked  with  a  wistful  look  into  her 
deep  gray  eyes.  His  resolution  failed  him.  "One  kiss,"  he 
said,  "Gwendoline  !  "  His  voice  was  choking.  The  beautiful 
girl,  turning  toward  him  with  a  wild  sob,  fell,  yielding  her- 
self on  his  breast,  and  cried  hot  tears  of  joy  at  that  evident 
sign  that,  in  spite  of  ail  he  said,  he  still  really  loved  her. 

They  sat  there  long,  hand  in  hand,  and  eye  on  eye,  talking 
it  all  over,  as  lovers  will,  with  infinite  delays,  yet  getting  no 
nearer  toward  a  solution  either  way.  Gwendoline,  for  her 
part,  didn't  care,  of  course  (what  true  woman  does  ?),  whether 
Granville  was  the  heir  of  Tilgate  or  not;  she  would  marry 


WHAT  S    hkKl)   IN    TIIK    liONK. 


60 


led  with 
aid  with 
nd  half- 
I't  know 
g^ot  very 
-that  I 
1  under- 
I  must 

edge  by 
as  she 
'  at  this 
'anville, 
I  icnow, 

Tessure. 
^Icd  and 
ome  in- 
in't  that 
St  iinow 
lat  any 
nything 
soul  on 
ted  she 
nething 
nething 

of  the 
ke  him 
t  delay 
rospect 
haps  — 
nto  her 
iss,"  he 

autifu! 
'\g  her- 
evident 
r. 
talking 

ing  no 
for  her 
irhether 

marry 


him  all  the  more,  she  said,  if  he  were  a  penniless  nobody.  All 
she  wanted  was  to  love  him  and  be  near  him.  Let  him  marry 
her  now,  marry  1  r  to-day,  and  then  go  where  he  would  in  the 
world  to  seek  his  livelihood.  Ihit  Granville,  poor  fellow, 
alarmed  at  the  bare  suggestion  ( for  his  mother's  sake)  that 
Tilgate  might  really  not  be  his,  checked  her  at  once  in  her  out- 
burst with  a  grave,  silent  look  ;  he  was  still,  he  said,  calmly, 
the  inheritor  of  Tilgate.  It  wasn't  that.  At  least,  not  as  she 
took  it.  He  didn't  know  precisely  Aviiat  it  was  himself.  She 
must  have  faith  in  him  and  trust  him.  She  must  wait  and  see. 
In  the  end,  he  hoped,  he  would  come  back  and  marry  her. 

And  (jwendoline  made  answer,  with  many  tear.s,  that  she 
knew  it  was  so,  and  that  she  loved  him  and  trusted  him.  So 
after  sitting  there  long,  hand  lo-ked  in  hand,  antl  heart  intent 
on  heart,  the  two  young  people  rose  at  last  to  go,  protesting 
and  vowing  their  mutual  Kjve  on  either  side,  as  happy  and  as 
miserable  in  their  divided  lives  as  two  young  people  in  all 
England  that  nuMiient.  Over  and  over  again  they  kissed  and 
said  good-bye ;  then  they  stood  with  one  another's  fnigers 
clasped  hard  in  their  own,  unwilling  t(;  part,  and  unable  to 
loose  them.  After  that  they  kissed  again,  and  declared  once 
more  thev  were  broken-hearted,  and  could  never  leave  one 
another;  nut  still,  (Iranville  added,  half  aside,  he  must  make  up 
his  mind  not  to  see  Gwendoline  again  —  honor  demanded  that 
sacrifice  —  till  he  could  come  at  last  a  rich  man  to  claim  her. 
Meanwhile  she  was  free ;  and  he  —  he  was  ever  hers, 
devotedly,  whole-souledly.  Hut  they  were  no  longer  engaged. 
He  was  hers  in  hea/t  only.  Let  her  try  to  forget  him.  He 
could  never  forget  her. 

And  Gwendoline,  sobbing  and  tearful,  but  believing  him 
implicitly,  retreated  with  slow  steps,  looking  back  at  each  turn 
of  the  zigzag  path  and  sending  the  ghosts  of  dead  kisses  from 
her  finger-tips  to  greet  him. 

Below  in  the  dell  Granville  stood  still  and  watched  her 
depart  in  breathless  silence  Then  in  an  agony  of  despair  he 
flung  himself  down  on  the  grojnd  and  burst  into  tears,  and 
sobbed  like  a  child  over  hf»  broken  day-dream. 

Gwendoline,  coming  ba/;k  to  make  sure,  saw  him  lying  and 
sobbing  so,  and,  woman -like,  felt  compelled  to  step  down  just 
one  minute  to  comfort  him.  Granville  in  turn  refused  her 
proffered  comfort — it  was  l/<  Mcr  ko;  he  mustn't  listen  to  her 
any  more;  he  must  steel  him!»eif  to  say  no;  he  must  remem* 


:"i 


fw 

Wi 


70 


what's  bred  in  the  bonb. 


ber  it  was  dishonorable  of  him  to  drag  a  delicately  nurtured 
girl  into  a  penniless  marriage.  Then  they  kissed  once  more 
and  made  it  all  up  again;  and  they  sobbed  and  wept  as  before, 
and  broke  it  off  forever ;  and  they  said  good-bye  for  the  very 
last  time ;  and  they  decided  they  must  never  meet  till  Gran- 
ville came  back  ;  and  they  hoped  they  would  sometimes  catch 
just  a  glimpse  of  one  another  in  the  outer  world,  and  what- 
ever the  other  one  said  or  did,  they  would  each  in  their  hearts 
be  always  true  to  their  first  great  love;  and  they  were  more 
miserable  still,  and  they  were  happier  than  they  had  ever  been 
in  their  lives  before;  and  they  parted  at  last,  with  a  desperate 
effort,  each  perfectly  sure  of  the  other's  love,  and  each  vowing 
in  soul  they  would  never,  never  see  one  another  again,  but  each, 
for  all  that,  perfectly  certain  that  some  day  or  other  they  would 
be  husband  and  wife,  though  Tilgate  and  the  wretched  little 
fallow  deer  should  sink,  unwept,  to  the  bottom  of  the  ocean. 


I 


i 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


BUSINESS  FIRST. 


The  manager  at  Messrs.  Drummond,  Coutts  &  Barclay's, 
Limited,  received  Colonel  Kelmscott  with  distinguished  con- 
sideration. A  courteous,  conciliatory  sort  of  man,  that  man- 
ager, with  his  close-shaven  face  and  his  spotless  shirt-front. 

"Five  minutes,  my  dear  sir?"  he  exclaimed,  with  warmth, 
motioning  his  visitor  blandly  into  the  leather-covered  chair. 
"  Half  an  hour  if  you  wish  it.  We  always  have  leisure  to 
receive  our  clients.  Any  service  we  can  render  them,  we're 
only  t3o  happy." 

"  But  this  is  a  very  peculiar  bit  of  business,"  Colonel  Kelm- 
scott answered,  humming  and  hawing  with  obvious  hesitation. 
"  It  isn't  quite  in  the  regular  way  of  banking,  I  believe.  Per- 
haps, indeed,  I  ought  rather  to  have  put  it  into  the  hands  of 
my  solicitor.  But  even  if  you  can't  manage  the  thing  your- 
self, you  may  be  able  to  put  me  in  the  way  of  finding  out  how 
best  I  can  get  it  managed  elsewhere." 

The  manager  bowed.  His  smile  was  a  smile  of  genuine 
satisfaction.  Colonel  Kelmscott  of  Tilgate  was  in  a  most 
gracious  humor.  The  manager,  with  deference,  held  himself 
wholly  at  his  client's  disposition. 


i.if, 


■■•».; 


WHAT  S  BRED  IN  THE  BONE. 


71 


e  ocean. 


So  the  Colonel  proceeded  to  unfold  his  business.  There 
were  two  young  men,  now  knocking  about  town,  of  the  names 
of  Guy  and  Cyril  Waring — the  one  a  journalist,  the  other  a 
painter — and  they  had  rooms  in  Staple  Inn,  Holborn,  which 
would  doubtless  form  a  sufficient  clue  by  which  to  identify 
them.  Colonel  Kelmscott  desired  unobtrusively  to  know 
where  these  young  men  banked — if,  indeed,  they  were  in  a 
position  to  keep  an  account;  and  when  that  was  found  out,  he 
wished  Messrs.  Drummond,  Coutts&  Barclay,  Limited,  to  place 
a  sum  of  money  at  their  bankers  to  their  credit,  without  men- 
tioning the  name  of  the  person  so  placing  it,  as  well  as  to 
transmit  to  them  a  sealed  envelope,  containing  instructions  as 
to  the  use  to  be  made  of  the  money  in  question. 

_^he  manager  nodded  a  cautious  acquiescence.  To  place 
the  n  '>'^  y  to  the  credit  of  the  two  young  men,  indeed,  would 
be  quite  m  their  way  ;  but  to  send  the  sealed  envelope  without 
being  aware  of  its  contents  or  the  nature  of  the  business  on 
which  it  was  dispatched,  would  be  much  less  regular.  Per- 
haps the  Colonel  might  find  some  other  means  of  managing 
without  their  aid  that  portion  of  the  business  arrangement. 

The  Colonel,  for  his  part,  fell  in  readily  enough  with  this 
modest  point  of  view.  It  amply  sufficed  for  him  if  the  money 
were  paid  to  the  young  men's  credit,  and  a  receipt  forwarded 
to  him  in  due  course,  under  cover  of  a  number,  to  the  care  of 
the  bankers. 

"  Very  well,"  the  manager  answered,  rubbing  his  hands 
contentedly.  "  Our  confidential  clerk  will  settle  all  that  for 
you.  A  most  sagacious  person,  our  confidential  clerk.  No 
eyes,  no  ears,  no  tongue  for  anything  but  our  clients' 
interests." 

The  Colonel  smiled,  and  sat  a  little  longer,  giving  further 
details  as  to  th'  precise  amount  he  wished  sent,  and  the  par- 
ticular way  he  -hed  to  send  it  —  the  whole  sum  to  be,  in 
fact,  twelve  thousand  pounds,  amount  of  the  purchase  money 
of  the  Dowlands  farms,  whereof  only  six  thousand  had  as  yet 
been  paid  down ;  and  that  six  thousand  he  wished  to  place 
forthwith  to  the  credit  of  Cyril  Waring,  the  painter.  The 
remaining  six  thousand,  to  be  settled,  as  agreed,  in  five  weeks' 
time,  he  would  then  make  over  under  the  self-same  condiiions 
to  the  other  brother,  Guy  Waring,  the  journalist.  It  had 
gone  a  trifle  too  cheap,  that  Land  at  Dowlands,  the  Colonel 
opined ;    but  still,  m  days    like    these    ht    was   very    glad, 


>*i 


1^^ 


72 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE    BONE. 


^1 

•  * 
I,' 


11 


indeed,  to  find  a  purchaser  for  the  place  at  anytliing  like  its 
value. 

"  I  think  a  Miss  Ewes  was  the  fortunate  bidder^  wasn't 
she?"  the  manager  asked,  just  to  make  a  certain  decent 
show  of  interest  in  his  client's  estate. 

"Yes,  Miss  Elma  Kwes  of  Kenilworth,"  the  Colonel 
answered,  letting  loose  for  a  moment  his  tongue,  that  unruly 
member.  '*  She's  the  composer,  you  know  —  writes  songs 
and  dances  ;  remotely  connected  with  Reginald  Clifford,  the 
man  who  was  governor  of  some  West  Indian  Dutch-oven  — 
St.  Kitts,  I  think,  or  Antigua.  He  lives  down  our  way,  and 
he's  a  neighbor  of  mine  at  Tilgate.  Or,  rather,  she's  con- 
nected with  Mrs.  Clifford,  the  governor's  wife,  who  was  one 
of  the  younger  branch,  a  Miss  Ewes  of  Worthing,  daughter 
of  the  Ewes  who  was  Dean  of  Dorchester.  Elma's  been  a 
family  name  for  years  with  all  the  lot  of  Eweses,  good,  bad, 
or  indifferent.  Came  down  to  them,  don't  you  know,  from 
that  Roumanian  ancestress." 

"Indeed,"  the  manager  answered,  now  beginning  to  be 
really  interested;  for  the  Cliffords  were  clients,  too,  and  it 
behooves  a  banker  to  know  everything  about  everybody's  busi- 
ness. "So  Mrs.  Clifford  had  an  ancestress  who  was  a 
Roumanian,  had  she?  Well,  I've  nodced  at  times  her  com- 
plexion looked  very  southern  and  gypsy-like  —  distinctly 
un-English." 

"Oh  !  they  call  it  Roumanian,"  Colonel  Kelmscott  went  on 
in  a  confidential  tone,  roping  his  white  mustache  and  growing 
more  and  more  conversational;  "they  call  it  Roumanian, 
because  it  sounds  more  respectable;  but  I  believe,  if  you  go 
right  down  t(*  the  very  bo'tom  of  the  thing,  it  was  much 
more  like  some  kin  !  of  Oriental  gypsy.  Sir  Michael  Ewes, 
the  founder  of  the  house,  in  George  the  Second's  time,  was 
ambassador  for  awhile  at  Constantinople.  He  began  life," 
indeed,  I  believe,  as  a  Turkey  merchant.  Well,  at  Pera  one 
clay,  so  the  story  goes, —  yo  11  find  it  all  in  Horace  Walpole's 
diary  —  he  picked  up  with  this  dark-skinned  gypsy  woman, 
who  waM  a  wonderful  creature  in  her  way;  a  sort  of  mesmeric 
sorceres>,  who  belonged  to  some  tribe  of  far-Eastern  serpent- 
charmers.  It  set-ms  that  women  of  this  particular  tribe  were 
regularly  trained  by  the  men  to  be  capering  priestesses  —  or 
fortune  tellers,  if  you  like  —who  performed  some  extraor- 
dinary  sacred   antics   of   a  mystical    kind,  much  after  the 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


73 


fashion  of  the  howling  dervishes.  However  thnt  may  be,  Sir 
Michael,  at  any  rate,  pacing  the  streets  of  Pera,  saw  the 
woman  that  she  was  passing  fair,  and  fell  in  love  with  her  out- 
right at  some  dervish  entertainment.  But  being  a  very  well- 
behaved  old  man,  combining  a  liking  for  Orientals  with  a 
British  taste  for  the  highest  respectability,  he  had  the  girl 
baptized  and  made  into  a  proper  Christian  first ;  and  then  he 
•"'  Jed  her  off-hand,  and  brought  her  home  with  him  as  my 
Lady  Ewes  to  England.  She  was  presented  at  Court  to 
George  the  Second ;  and  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montague 
stood  her  sponsor  en  the  occasion." 

"But  how  did  it  ail  turn  out?"  the  manager  asked,  with  an 
air  of  intelligent  historical  interest. 

"Turn  out?  Well,  it  turned  out  in  a  thumping  big  family 
of  thirteen  children,"  the  Colonel  answered,  "most  of  whom, 
happily  for  the  father,  died  young.  But  liie  five  who  sur- 
vived, and  who  married  at  last  into  very  good  connections,  all 
had  one  peculiarity,  which  they  transmitted  to  all  their  female 
descendants.  Very  odd  these  hereditary  traits,  to  be  sure. 
Very  singular  !     Very  singular  ! " 

"Ah!  to  be  sure,"  the  manager  answered,  turning  over  a 
pile  of  letters.  "And  what  was  the  hereditary  trait  handed 
down,  as  you  say,  in  the  family  of  the  Roumanian  lady?" 

"Why,  in  the  first  place,"  the  Colonel  continued,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair  and  making  himself  perfectly  comfortable, 
"all  the  girls  of  the  Ewes  connection,  to  the  third  and  fourth 
generation,  have  olive-brown  complexions,  creamy  and  soft, 
but  clear  as  crystal.  Then,  again,  they've  all  got  most  ex- 
traordinary intuition  —  a  perfectly  marvelous  gift  of  reading 
faces.  By  George,  sir,"  the  Colonel  exclaimed,  growing  hot 
and  red  at  the  memory  of  that  afternoon  on  the  Holker.s' 
lawn,  "I  don't  like  to  see  those  women's  eyes  fixed  upon  my 
cheek  when  there's  anything  going  on  I  don't  want  them  to 
know.  A  man's  transparent  like  glass  before  them.  They 
see  into  his  very  soul.     They  look  right  through  him." 

"  If  the  lady  who  founded  the  family  habits  was  a  fortune- 
teller," the  manager  interposed,  with  a  scientific  air,  '*  that's 
not  so  remarkable;  for  fortune-tellers  must  always  be  quick- 
witted people,  keen  to  perceive  the  changes  of  countenance  in 
the  dupes  who  employ  them,  and  prompt  at  humoring  all  the 
fads  and  fancies  of  their  customers,  mustn't  they?" 

"  Quite  so,"  the  Colonel  echoed.     "  You've  hit  it  on  the  nail. 


n' 


74 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


t( 


l^    L\ 


\i 


':  i 


And  this  particular  lady — Esmeralda,  they  called  her,  so  that 
Elma,  which  is  short  for  Esmeralda,  understand,  has  come  to 
be  the  regular  Christian  name  among  all  her  woman  descend- 
ants— this  particular  lady  belonged  to  what  you  might  call  a 
caste  or  priestly  family,  as  it  were,  of  hereditary  fortune-tellers, 
every  one  of  whose  ancestors  had  been  specially  selected  for 
generations  for  the  work,  till  a  kind  of  transmissible  mesmeric 
habit  got  developed  among  them.  And  they  do  say,"  the 
Colonel  went  on,  lowering  his  voice  a  little  more  to  a  confiden- 
tial whisper,  "  that  all  the  girls  descended  from  Madame 
Esmeralda — Lady  Ewes  of  Charlwood,  as  she  was  in  England 
— retain  to  this  day  another  still  odder  and  uncannier  mark  of 
their  peculiar  origin;  but,  of  course,  it's  a  story  that  would  be 
hard  to  substantiate,  though  I've  heard  it  discussed  more  than 
once  among  the  friends  of  the  family." 

"  Dear  me!  What's  that?"  the  manager  asked,  in  a  tone  of 
marked  curiosity. 

"  Why,  they  do  say,"  the  Colonel  went  on,  now  fairly  launched 
upon  a  piece  of  after-dinner  gossip,  '*  that  the  Eastern  snake- 
dance  of  Madame  Esmeralda's  people  is  hereditary  even  still 
among  the  women  of  the  family,  and  that,  sooner  or  later,  it 
breaks  out  unexpectedly  in  every  one  of  them.  When  the  fit 
comes  on,  they  shut  themselves  up  in  their  own  rooms,  I've 
been  told,  and  twirl  round  and  round  for  hours  like  dancing 
dervishes,  with  anything  they  can  get  in  their  hands  to  repre- 
sent a  serpent,  till  they  fall  exhausted  with  the  hysterical  effort. 
Even  if  a  woman  of  Esmeralda's  blood  escapes  it  at  all  other 
times,  it's  sure  to  break  out  when  she  first  sees  a  real  live  snake, 
or  falls  in  love  for  the  first  time.  Then  the  dormant  instincts 
of  the  race  come  over  her  with  a  rush,  at  the  very  dawn  of 
womanhood,  all  quickened  and  aroused,  as  it  were,  in  the 
general  awakening." 

"That's  very  curious,"  the  manager  said,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair  in  turn,  and  twirling  his  thumbs,  "very  curious  indeed; 
and  yet,  in  its  way,  very  probable,  very  probable.  For  habits 
like  those  must  set  themselves  deep  in  the  very  core  of  the 
system,  don't  you  think.  Colonel?  If  this  woman,  now,  was 
descended  from  a  whole  line  of  ancestresses  who  had  all  been 
trained  for  their  work  into  a  sort  of  ecstatic  fervor,  the  ecstasy 
and  all  that  went  with  il  must  have  got  so  deeply  ingrained — " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  the  Colonel  interrupted,  consulting  his 
watch  and  seizing  his  hat,  hastily — for,  as  a  Kelmscott,  he  re- 


!i  II 


WHAT  S  BRED  IN   THE  BONE. 


75 


fused  point-blank  to  be  lectured — "  I've  an  appointment  at  my 
club  at  half-past  three,  and  I  must  not  wait  any  longer.  Well, 
you'll  get  these  young  men's  address  for  me,  then,  at  the  very 
earliest  possible  opportunity?" 

The  manager  pocketed  the  snub,  and  bowed  his  farewell. 
"Oh,  certainly!  "  he  answered,  trying  to  look  as  pleased  and 
gracious  as  his  features  would  permit.  "  Our  confidential  clerk 
will  hunt  them  up  immediately.  We're  delighted  to  be  of  use 
to  you.     Good-morning,  good-morning." 

And  as  soon  as  the  Colonel's  back  was  turned,  the  manager 
rang  twice  on  his  sharp  little  bell  for  the  confidential  clerk  to 
receive  his  orders. 

Mr.  Montague  Nevitt  immediately  presented  himself  in 
answer  to  the  summons. 

"Mr.  Nevitt,"  the  manager  said,  with  a  dry,  small  cough, 
here's  a  bit  of  business  of  the  most  domestic  kin- — strict  seal 
of  secrecy;  not  a  word  on  any  account.  Colonel  Kelmscott  of 
Tilgate  wants  to  know  where  two  young  men,  named  Guy  and 
Cyril  Waring,  keep  their  banking  account,  if  any;  and,  as 
soon  as  he  knows,  he  wishes  to  pay  in  a  substantial  sum,  quite 
privately,  to  their  credit." 

Mr.  Montague  Nevitt  bowed  a  bow  of  assent,  without  the 
faintest  sign  of  passing  recognition.  "  Guy  and  Cyril  Waring," 
he  repeated  to  himself,  looking  close  at  the  scrap  of  paper  his 
chief  had  handed  him;  "Guy  and  Cyril  Waring,  Staple  Inn, 
Holborn.  I  can  find  out  to-day,  sir,  if  you  attach  any  special 
and  pressing  importance  to  promptitude  in  the  matter." 


It 


ill 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MUSIC   HATH  POWER. 

For  Mr.  Montague  Nevitt  was  a  cautious,  cool,  and  calculat- 
ing person.  He  knew  better  than  most  of  us  that  knowledge 
is  power.  So  when  the  manager  mentioned  to  him  casually, 
in  the  way  of  business,  the  names  of  Guy  and  Cyril  Waring, 
Mr.  Montague  Nevitt  didn't  respond  at  once  :  "  Oh,  dear,  yes; 
one  of  them's  my  most  intimate  personal  friend,  and  the  other's 
his  brother,"  as  a  man  of  less  discretion  might  have  been 
tempted  to  do.    For,  in  t'le  first  place,  by  finding  out,  or  ssem- 


I 


70 


WHAT  S   HKKD    IN    THK    HONE. 


'  i. 


ing  to  find  out,  the  facts  about  the  Warings  that  very  after- 
noof'i,  he  could  increase  his  character  with  his  employers  for 
zeal  and  ability,  and,  in  the  second  place,  if  he  had  let  out 
too  soon  that  he  knew  the  Warings  personally,  he  might  most 
likely  on  that  very  account  have  been  no  further  employed 
in  carrying  into  execution  this  delicate  little  piece  of  family 
business. 

So  Nevitt  held  his  peace  discreetly,  !ike  a  wise  man  that  he 
was,  and  answered  .nercly,  in  :i  most  submissive  voice,  "I'll 
do  my  best  to  ascertain  where  they  bank  at  once,"  as  if  he  had 
never  before  in  his  life  heard  the  name  of  Waring. 

For  the  self-same  reason,  Mr.  Montague  Nevitt  didn't  hint 
that  evening  to  (luy  that  he  had  become  possessed  during  the 
course  of  the  day  of  a  secret  of  the  first  importance  to  Guy's 
fortune  and  future.  Of  course,  a  man  so  astute  as  Montague 
Nevitt  jumped  at  once  at  the  correct  conclusion  that  Colonel 
Kelmscott  must  be  the  two  Warings*  father;  but  he  wasn't 
going  to  be  fool  -nough  to  chuck  his  chance  away  by  sharing 
that  information  with  any  second  person.  A  secret  is  far  too 
valuable  a  lever  in  life  to  be  carelessly  flung  aside  by  a  man 
of  ambition  ;  and  Montague  Nevitt  saw  this  secret  in  par- 
ticular was  doubly  valuable  to  him.  He  could  use  it,  wedge- 
wise,  with  both  the  Warings  in  all  his  future  dealings,  by 
promising  to  reveal  to  one  or  other  of  them  a  matter  of 
importance  and  probable  money  value,  and  he  could  use  it  also 
as  a  perpetual  threat  to  hold  over  Colonel  Kelmscott,  if  ever 
it  should  be  needful  to  extort  blackmail  from  the  possessor  of 
Tilgate,  or  to  thwart  his  schemes  by  some  active  interference. 

So  when  Nevitt  strolled  round  about  nine  o'clock  that  night 
to  Staple  Inn,  violin-case  in  hand  and  cigarette  in  mouth,  he 
gave  not  a  sign  of  the  curious  information  he  had  that  day 
acquired  to  the  person  most  interested  in  learning  the  truth 
as  to  the  precise  genealogy  of  the  Waring  family. 

There  was  no  great  underlying  community  of  interests  be- 
tween the  clever  young  journalist  and  his  banking  companion; 
a  common  love  for  music  was  the  main  bond  of  union  between 
the  two  men.  Yet  Montague  Nevitt  exercised  over  Guy  a 
strange  and  fatal  fascination  which  Cyril  always  found  posi- 
tively unaccountable.  And  on  this  particular  evening,  as 
Nevitt  stood  swaying  himself  to  and  fro  upon  the  hearth-rug 
before  the  empty  grate,  with  his  eyes  half-closed,  drawing  low, 
weird  music  with  his  enchanted  bow  from  those  submissive 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


77 


strings,  Guy  leaned  back  on  the  sofa  and  listened,  entranced 
with  a  hopeless  feeling  of  utter  inability  ever  to  approach  the 
wizard-like  and  supreme  execution  of  that  masterly  hand  and 
those  superhuman  fingers.  How  he  twisted  and  turned  them 
as  though  his  bones  were  india-rubber!  Mis  palms  were  all 
joints  and  his  eyes  all  ecstasy.  He  seemed  able  to  do  what 
he  liked  with  his  violin.  He  played  on  his  instrument,  indeed, 
as  he  played  on  Guy —  with  the  consummate  art  of  a  skillful 
executant. 

"That's  marvelous,  Nevitt,"  Guy  broke  out  at  last.  "  Never 
heard  even  Sarasate  himself  do  anything  quite  so  wild  and 
weird  as  that.  What's  tlie  piece  called.'*  It  seems  to  have 
something  almost  impish  or  sprite-like  in  its  wailing  music. 
It's  Hungarian,  of  course,  or  Polish,  or  Greek  ;  1  detect  at 
once  the  Oriental  tinge  in  it." 

"Wrong  for  once,  my  dear  boy,"  Nevitt  answered,  smiling. 
"It's  English,  pure  English,  and  by  a  lady,  what's  more  — 
one  of  the  Eweses  of  Kenilworth.  She's  a  distant  relation  of 
Cyril's  Miss  Clifford,  I  believe.  An  Elma,  too  ;  name  runs  in 
the  family.  But  she  composes  wonderfully.  Everything  she 
writes  is  in  that  mystic  key.  It  sounds  like  a  reminiscence  of 
some  dim  and  lamp-lit  Eastern  temple.  The  sort  of  thing  a 
nautch-girl  might  be  supposed  to  compose,  to  sing  to  the  clash 
and  clang  of  cymbals,  while  she  was  performing  the  snake- 
dance  before  some  Juggernaut  idol." 

"Exactly,"  Guy  answered,  shutting  his  eyes  dreamily; 
"that's  just  the  very  picture  it  brings  up  before  my  mind's 
eye.  As  you  render  it,  Nevitt,  I  seem  to  see  vague  visions 
of  some  vast  and  dimly  lighted  rock-hewn  cavern,  with  long 
vistas  of  pillars  cut  from  the  solid  stone,  while  dark-limbed 
priestesses,  clad  in  white  muslin  robes,  swing  censers  in  the 
foreground  to  solemn  music.  Upon  my  word,  the  power  of 
sound  is  something  simply  wonderful.  There's  almost  nothing, 
I  believe,  good  music  wouldn't  drive  me  to  —  or  rather  lead 
me  to ;  for  it  sways  one,  and  guides  even  more  than  it  impels 
one." 

"  And  yet,"  Nevitt  mused,  in  slow  tones,  to  himself,  taking 
up  his  violin  again,  and  drawing  his  bow  over  the  chords  with 
half-closed  eyes  in  a  s-^emingly  listless,  aimless,  manner,  "  I 
don't  believe  music's  yo>.'r  real  first  love,  Guy.  You  took  it 
up  only  to  be  different  from  Cyril.  The  artistic  impulse  in 
bpth  of  you  is  the  same  at   bottom.    Ii  you'd  let  it  havq 


) 


I  i 


!1 


f 


} 


il! 


1  o 


; 


N; 


J' 


li 


I 

4|- 


(      t 


•» 


I' 


I 

UK 


li 

I 


78 


what's  brbo  in  the  bone. 


it's  own  way,  you'd  have  taken,  not  to  this,  I'm  sure,  but  to 
painting.  But  Cyril  painted,  so,  to  make  yourself  different, 
you  went  in  for  music.  That's  you  all  over!  You  always 
have  such  a  hankering  after  being  what  you  are  not!" 

"Well,  hang  it  all,  a  man  wants  to  have  some  individuality," 
Guy  answered,  apologetically.  "  He  doesn't  like  to  be  a  mere 
copy  or  repetition  of  his  brother." 

Nevitt  reflected  quietly  to  himself  that  Cyril  never  wanted 
to  be  different  from  Guy;  his  was  by  far  the  stronger  nature 
of  the  two:  he  was  content  to  be  himself,  without  regard  to 
his  brother.  But  Nevitt  didn't  say  so;  indeed,  why  should  he? 
He  merely  went  on  playing  a  few  disconnected  bars  of  a  very 
lively,  hopeful,  Utopian  i:ort  of  a  tune — a  tune  all  youth  and 
health,  and  go  and  gaiety — as  he  interjected  from  time  to 
time  some  brief  financial  remarks  on  the  numerous  good 
strokes  he'd  pulled  off  of  late  in  his  transactions  in  the  city. 

"Can't  do  them  in  my  own  name,  you  know,"  he  observed, 
lightly,  at  last  laying  down  his  bow,  and  replacing  the  dainty 
white  rose  in  his  left  top  button-hole.  "  Not  official  for  a  bank 
employ^  to  operate  on  the  Stock  Exchange;  the  chiefs  object 
to  it:  so  I  do  my  little  ventiT'^s  in  Tom's  name  instead — my 
brother-in-law,  Tom  Whitk  s.  Those  Cedulas  went  up 
another  eighth  yesterday.  Well  hit  again!  I'm  always  lucky. 
And  that  was  a  good  thing  I  put  you  on  last  week,  too,  wasn't  it? 
Did  you  sell  out  to-day?  They're  up  at  ninety-six,  and  you 
bought  in  at  eighty." 

"  No,  I  didn't  sell  to-day,"  Guy  answered,  with  a  yawn. 
"  I'm  holding  on  still  for  a  further  rise.  I  thought  I'd  sell  out 
when  they  reached  the  even  hundred." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  you're  wrong,"  Nevitt  put  in,  eagerly. 
"  You  ought  to  have  sold  to-day.  It's  the  top  of  the  market. 
They'll  begin  to  decline  soon,  and  when  once  they  begin  they'll 
come  down  with  a  crash,  as  P.  L.'s  did  on  Saturday.  You  take 
my  advice,  and  sell  out  first  thing  to-morrow  morning. 
You'll  clear  sixteen  pounds  on  each  of  your  shares;  that's 
enough  for  any  man.  You  bought  ten  shares,  I  think,  didn't 
you?  Well,  there  you  are,  you  see — a  hundred  and  sixty  off- 
hand for  you  on  your  bargain." 

Guy  paused  and  reflected  a  doubtful  moment.  "  Yes,  I'll 
sell  out  to-morrow,  Nevitt,"  he  said,  after  a  struggle,  "  or  what 
comes  to  the  same  thing,  you  can  sell  out  for  me.  But,  vir 
you  know,  my  dear  fellow,  I  sometimes  fancy  I'm  a  fool  for 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN    THE    BONE. 


79 


but  to 

ifferent, 
always 

uality," 
;  a  mere 

wanted 
r  nature 
igard  to 
)uld  he? 
f  a  very 
jth  and 
time  to 
s  good 
:he  city. 
)served, 
;  dainty 
r  a  bank 
»  object 
ad — my 
em  up 
s  lucky, 
asn't  it? 
nd  you 

L  yawn, 
sell  out 

eagerly, 
market. 
1  they'll 
ou  take 
lorning. 
;  that's 
didn't 
xty  off- 
res,  I'll 
Qf  what 
But,  vir 
:ool  for 


my  pains,  going  in  for  all  this  silly  speculation.  Better  stick 
to  my  guinea  a  column  in  thtA/orning  Mat'/.  The  risks  are  so 
great,  and  the  gains  so  small.  I  don't  believe  outsiders  ought 
to  back  their  luck  at  all  like  this  on  the  Stock  Exchange." 

Montague  Nevilt  acquiesced  with  cheerful  promptitude.  "  I 
agree  with  you  down  to  the  ground,"  he  said,  lighting  a  cigar- 
ette, and  puffing  away  at  it  vigorously.  "  Outsiders  ought  not 
to  back  their  luck  on  the  Stock  Exchange.  That,  I  take  it,  is 
a  self-evident  proposition.  But  the  point  is,  here,  that  you're 
not  an  outsider,  and  you  don't  back  your  luck,  which  alters 
the  case,  you'll  admit,  somewhat.  You  embark  on  speculations 
on  my  advice  only,  and  I'm  in  a  position  to  judge,  as  well  as 
any  other  expert  in  the  city  of  London,  what  things  are  genu- 
ine, or  what  things  are  not  worth  a  wise  man's  attention." 

He  stretched  himself  on  the  sofa  with  a  lazy,  luxurious  air, 
and  continued  to  puff  away  in  silence  at  his  cigarette  for 
another  ten  minutes.  Then  he  drew  unostentatiously  from 
his  pocket  a  folded  sheet  of  foolscap  paper,  printed  after  the 
fashion  of  the  common  company  prospectus.  For  a  second  or 
two  he  read  it  over  to  himself  in  silence,  till  Guy's  curiosity 
was  sufficiently  roused  by  his  mute  proceeding. 

"  What  have  you  got  there?"  the  journalist  asked  at  last, 
eying  it  inquiringly,  as  the  fly  eyes  the  cobweb. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  Nevitt  answered,  folding  the  paper  up  neatly, 
and  returning  it  to  his  pocket.  "  You've  sworn  off  now,  so  it 
does  not  concern  you.  Just  the  prospectus  of  a  little  fresh 
thing  coming  out  next  week — a  very  exceptional  chance — but 
you  don't  want  to  go  in  for  it.  I  mean  to  apply  for  three 
hundred  shares  myself,  I'm  so  certain  of  its  success;  and  I  had 
thought  of  advising  you  to  take  a  hundred  and  fifty  on  your 
own  account  as  well,  with  that  hundred  and  fifty  you  cleared 
over  the  Cordova  cattle-bonds.  They're  ten-pound  shares,  at 
a  merely  nominal  price — ten  bob  on  application  and  ten  on 
allotment — so  you  could  take  a  hundred  and  fifty  as  easy  as 
look  at  it.  No  further  calls  will  ever  be  made.  It's  really  a 
most  remarkable  investment." 

"  Let  me  see  the  prospectus,"  Guy  murmured,  faltering,  the 
fever  of  speculation  once  more  getting  the  better  of  him. 

Nevitt  pretended  to  hang  back  like  a  man  with  fine  scruples. 
"It's  the  Rio  Negro  Diamond  and  Sapphire  Mine,  Limited," 
he  said,  with  a  deprecatory  air.  *'  But  you'd  better  not  go  in 
for  it    I  expect  to  make  a  pot  out  of  the  thing  myself.    It's 


i 


/ 


h  1 


] 


'■111 

''  If 


. 


It 


t 


80 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN    THE  BONE. 


■I'- 


a  uniqu?  occasion.  Slill,  no  doubt  you're  right,  and  I  don't 
like  the  responsibility  of  advising  any  other  fellow.  Though 
you  can  see  for  yourself  what  the  promoters  say.  Very  first- 
-lass names.     And  Klink  thmks  most  highly  of  it." 

He  handed  Guy  a  paper  and  took  up  his  violin  as  if  by  pure 
accident,  while  Cluy  scanned  it  closely. 

The  journalist  bent  over  the  prospectus  with  eager  eyes, 
and  Nevitt  poured  forth  strange  music  as  he  read,  music  like 
the  murnuir  of  the  stream  of  Pactolus.  It  was  an  inspiring 
strain;  the  violin  seemed  to  possess  the  true  Midas  touch; 
gold  flowed  like  water  in  liquid  rills  from  its  catgut.  Guy 
finished,  and  rose,  and  dipped  a  pen  in  the  ink-pot.  "All 
right,"  he  said,  low,  half-hesitating  still;  "I'll  give  you  an 
order  to  sell  out  at  once,  and  I'll  fill  up  this  application  for 
three  hundred  shares — why  not  three  hundred?  I  may  as 
well  go  as  many  as  you  do.  If  it's  really  such  a  good  thing  as 
you  say,  why  shouldn't  I  profit  by  it?  Send  this  to  Klink 
to-morrow  early;  strike  while  the  iron's  hot,  and  get  the  thing 
finished." 

Nevitt  looked  at  the  paper  with  an  attentive  eye.  "  How 
curious  it  is,"  he  said,  regarding  the  signature  narrowly,  "that 
you  and  Cyril,  who  are  so  much  alike  in  everything  else, 
should  write  so  differently.  I  should  have  expected  your 
hands  to  be  almost  identical." 

"  Oh,  don't  you  know  why  that  is? "  Guy  answered,  with  an 
innocent  smile.  "I  do  it  on  purpose.  Cyril  writes  sloping 
forward,  the  ordinary  way,  so  I  slope  backward  just  to  prevent 
confusion.  And  1  form  all  my  letters  as  unlike  his  as  I  can, 
though  if  I  follow  my  own  bent  they  turn  out  the  same;  his 
way  is  more  natural  to  me,  in  fact,  than  the  way  I  write 
myself.  But  I  must  do  something  to  keep  our  letters  apart. 
That's  why  we  always  bank  at  a  different  banker's.  If  I 
liked  I  could  write  exactly  like  Cyril.  See,  here's  his  own 
signature  to  his  letter  this  morning,  and  here's  my  imitation 
of  it,  written  off-hand,  in  my  own  natural  manner.  No 
forger  on  earth  could  ever  need  anything  more  absolutely 
identical." 

Montague  Nevitt  took  it  up,  and  examined  it  with  interest. 
"Well,  this  is  wonderful,"  he  said,  comparing  the  two,  stroke 
for  stroke,  with  the  practiced  eye  of  an  expert.  "  The  signa- 
tures are  as  if  written  by  the  self-same  hand.  Any  cashier  in 
England  would  accept  your  check  at  sight  for  Cyril's." 


1  k 


WHAT  S   IIRED   IN    TlIK    noNE. 


81 


He  didn't  add  aloud  that  such  similarity   was  very  con- 
venient; but,  none  the  less,  in  his  own  mind  he  thought  so. 


I 


CHAPTER  XV. 


THE    PATH    OF    DUTY. 


Down  at  Tilgatc,  meanwhile,  Elma  Clifford  had  met  more 
than  once  with  Cyril  Waring  at  friends*  houses  around;  for, 
ever  since  the  accident,  Society  had  made  up  its  mind  that 
Elma  ought  to  marry  her  companion  in  the  tunnel;  and  when 
Society  once  makes  up  its  mind  on  a  question  of  this  sort, 
why,  it  does  its  level  best,  in  the  long  run,  to  insure  the  fulfill- 
ment of  its  own  prediction. 

Wherever  Elma  had  met  her  painter,  however,  during  those 
few  short  weeks,  she  had  seen  him  only  before  the  quizzing 
eyes  of  all  the  world;  and  though  she  admitted  to  herself  that 
she  liked  him  very  much,  she  was  nevertheless  so  thoroughly 
frightened  by  her  own  performance  after  the  Holkers'  party 
that  she  almost  avoided  him,  in  spite  of  officious  friends — 
partly,  it  is  true,  from  a  pure  feeling  of  maidenly  shame,  but 
partly,  also,  from  a  deeper-seated  and  profound  y  moral  belief 
that,  with  this  fierce,  mad  taint  upon  her,  as  she  naturally 
thought,  it  would  be  nothing  short  of  wrong  in  her  even  to 
marry.  She  couldn't  meet  Cyril  now  without  thinking  at 
once  of  that  irresistible  impulse  which  had  seized  her  by  the 
throat,  as  it  were,  and  bent  her  to  its  wild  will  in  her  own 
room  after  their  interview  at  the  Holkers';  and  the  thought 
did  far  more  than  bring  a  deep  blush  into  her  rich-brown 
cheek — it  made  her  feel  most  acutely  she  must  never  dream 
of  burdening  him  with  that  terrible  uncertainty  and  all  it 
might  inclose  in  it  of  sinister  import. 

For  Elma  felt  sure  she  was  mad  that  night.  And  if  so,  oh, 
how  could  she  poison  Cyril  Waring's  life  with  so  unspeakable 
an  inheritance  for  himself  and  his  children  ? 

She  didn't  know,  what  any  psychologist  might  at  once  have 
told  her,  that  no  one  with  the  fatal  taint  of  madness  in  her 
blood  could  ever  even  have  thought  of  that  righteous  self- 
denial.  Such  scruples  have  no  place  in  the  selfish  insane  tem- 
perament; they  belong  only  to  the  highest  and  purest  types  of 
moral  nature. 


;i 


82 


WHAT  S   BRED    IN    THE    BONE. 


One  morning,  however,  a  few  weeks  later,  KItna  had  strolled 
off  by  herself  into  Chetwood  forest,  without  any  intention  of 
going  anywhere  in  particular,  save  for  a  solitiiry  walk,  when 
suddenly  a  turn  round  the  corner  of  a  devious  path  brought 
her  face  to  face,  all  at  once,  with  a  piece  of  white  canvas, 
stretched  opposite  her  on  an  easel;  at  tiie  other  side  of  which, 
to  her  profound  dismay,  an  artist  in  a  gray  tv.ced  suit  was 
busily  working. 

The  artist,  as  it  happened,  didn't  see  her  at  once,  for  the 
canvas  s'.retched  between  them,  shutting  her  out  from  his  eyes, 
and  Elma's  light  footstep  on  the  mossy  ground  hadn't  aroused 
his  attention.  So  the  girl's  first  impulse  was  to  retrace  her 
way  unobtrusively  without  exchanging  a  word,  and  retire;  round 
the  corner  again  before  Cyril  could  recognize  her.  IJut  some- 
how, when  she  came  to  try,  she  couldn't.  Her  feet  refused 
point-blank  to  obey  her  will.  And  this  time,  in  her  own 
heart,  she  knew  very  well  why;  for  there  in  the  background, 
coiled  up  against  the  dense  wail  of  rock  and  fern,  Sardanapalus 
lay  knotted  in  sleepy  folds,  with  his  great  ringed  back  shining 
blue  in  the  sunlight  that  struggled  in  round  patches  through 
the  shimmering  foliage.  More  consciously  now  than  even  mi 
the  train,  the  beautiful,  deadly  creature  seemed  '.o  fascinate 
Elma,  and  bind  her  to  the  spot.  For  a  moment  she  hesitated, 
unable  to  resist  the  strange,  inexplijable  attraction  that  ran 
in  hf.r  blood.  That  brief  interval  settled  it.  Even  as  she 
paused,  Cyril  glanced  round  at  the  snake  to  note  the  passing 
effect  of  a  gleam  of  light  that  fell  slantwise  through  the  leaves 
to  dapple  his  spotty  back,  and  caught  sight  of  IClma.  The 
poor  girl  gave  a  start.  It  was  too  late  now  to  retreat.  She 
stood  there  rooted. 

Cyril  moved  forward  to  meet  her.  with  a  frankly  outstretched 
hand.  "Good-morning,  Miss  (Clifford,"  he  said,  in  his  cheery, 
manly  voice.  "  So  you've  dropped  down  by  accident  upon  my 
I:'.',r  here,  have  you?  VV^ell,  I'm  glad  you've  happened  to  pass 
by  to-day;  for  this,  do  you  kno.v,  is  my  very  last  morning. 
I'm  putting  the  finishing  touches  upca  my  picture  now,  before 
I  take  it  back  to  town.  I  go  away  to-morrow,  perhai)s  to 
Nortli  Wales,  perhaps  to  Scotland." 

Elma  trembled  a  little  at  those  words,  in  spite  of  resolution; 
for  though  she  could  never,  never,  never  marry  him,  it  was 
nice,  of  course,  to  feel  he  was  near  at  hand,  and  to  have  the 
chance  of  seeing  him,  and  avoiding  him  as  far  as  possible,  on 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


Strolled 
lUion  of 
k,  when 
brought 
canvas, 
which, 
iuit  was 

for  the 
lis  eyes, 
arousecl 
ace  her 
(!  round 
t  some- 
refused 
er  own 
ground, 
iKii)ahis 
shMiinjr 
h rough 
iven  Ml 
scinate 
siiatcd, 
lat  ran 

is  she 
)assing 

eaves 
The 
She 

etched 
hcery, 
on  my 
o  pass 

M'llinjr. 

before 
l11)s  to 

ution; 
it  was 
/G  the 
le,  on 


other  people's  lawns  at  j^arden  parties.  She  trembled  and 
turned  pale.  She  could  never  marry  him,  to  be  sure;  but  then 
she  could  never  nuirry  anyone  else,  eiilier;  ami,  that  beinj/  so, 
she  liked  to  str  him  now  and  a}.^ain,  on  neutral  )j[round,  as  it 
were,  and  to  know  he  was  somewhere  that  she  could  meet  him 
occasionall).  Wales  and  Scotlaiul  are  so  far  distant  from 
Surrey,  ICIina  showed  in  her  face  at  once  that  she  thought 
them  both  unpleasantly  remote  from  ( "raighloii,  'I'ilgale. 

With  timitl  autl  shrinking  steps  she  came  in  front  of  the 
picture,  and  gazed  at  it  in  detail  long  and  attentively.  Never 
before  did  she  know  how  fond  she  was  of  art, 

"  It's  beautiful,"  she  said,  alter  a  jjause;  "  I  like  it  immensely. 
That  moss  is  so  soft,  and  the  ferns  are  so  delicate;  and  how 
lovely  that  patch  of  rich  golden  light  is  on  Sardanapalus* 
shouliler." 

The  painter  stepped  back  a  pace  or  two  and  examined  his 
own  handicraft,  with  his  head  on  one  side,  in  a  very  critical 
altitude,  "  1  don't  know  that  I'm  ([uite  satisfied,  after  all, 
with  the  color-scheme,"  he  said,  glancing  askance  at  Elma, 
*■  1  fancy  it's  perhajjs  just  a  trille  too  green.  If.  looks  all 
rij^ht,  of  course,  out  here  in  the  open;  but  the  question  is, 
when  it's  hung  in  the  Academy,  surrouiuled  by  warui  reds 
and  i)urples  and  blues,  won't  it  look,  by  comparison,  much  too 
cal)bagi!y  and  too  grassy  ?  " 

l''.Ima  drev/  a  deep  breath. 

*'  Oh,  Mr.  Waring  !  "  she  cried,  in  a  deprecating  tone,  holding 
her  breath  for  awe. 

It  pained  her  that  anybody  —  even  Cyril  himself —  should 
speak  so  lightly  about  so  beautiful  a  picture. 

"  Then  you  like  it  ?"  Cyril  asked,  turning  round  to  her  full 
face  and  froniing  iier  as  she  stood  there,  all  beautiful  blushes 
through  her  creamy-white  skin. 

"  Like  it  ?  I  love  it,"  Elma  answered,  enthusiastically. 
"Apart  from  its  being  yours,  I  think  it  simply  beautiful." 

"And  you  like  ///^,  too,  then?"  the  painter  asked,  once  more, 
making  a  sudden  dash  at  the  (juestion  that  was  nearest  to 
both  their  hearts,  after  all,  that  moment,  lie  wi)s  going  away 
to-morrow,  and  lliis  was  a  last  opportunity.  Who  could  tell 
how  soon  somebody  might  come  up  through  the  woods  and 
interrupt  their  interview  ?  He  must  make  the  best  use  of  his 
time.     He  must  inake  haste  to  ask  her. 

Elma  let  her  eyes  drop,  and  her  heart  beat  hard.     She  laid 


r 

r    B 

iJ 

111 

t 

l(  t 


84 


what's  bred  in  the  bonb» 


her  hand  upon  the  easel  to  steady  herself,  as  she  answered 
slowly,  "  You  know  I  like  you,  Mr.  Waring ;  I  like  you  very, 
very  much  indeed.  You  were  so  kind  to  me  in  the  tunnel, 
and  I  felt  your  kindness.  You  could  see  that  day  I  was — 
very,  very  grateful  to  you." 

"When  I  asked  you  if  you  liked  my  picture,  Elraa, "  the 
young  man  said,  reproachfully,  taking  her  other  hand  in  his, 
and  looking  straight  into  her  eyes,  "you  said,  *Like  it?  I 
love  it,'  but  when  I  ask  you  if  you  like  me  —  ask  you  if  you 
will  take  me — you  only  say  you're  very,  very  grateful." 

Elma  le:.  him  take  her  hand,  all  trembling,  in  his.  She  let 
him  call  her  by  her  name.  She  let  him  lean  forward  and  gaze 
at  her,  lover-like.  Her  heart  throbbed  high.  She  couldn't 
refuse  him.  She  knew  she  loved  him  ;  but  to  marry  him  — 
oh,  no,  that  was  quite  another  thing.  There  duty  inter- 
posed.    It  would  be  cruel,  unworthy,  disgraceful,  wicked. 

She  drew  herself  back  a  little  with  maidenly  dignity,  as  she 
answered,  low,  "  Mr.  Waring,  we  two  saw  into  one  another's 
hearts  so  deep,  in  the  tunnel  that  day  we  spent  together,  that 
it  would  be  foolish  for  us  now  to  make  false  barriers  between 
us.  I'll  tell  you  the  plain  truth."  She  trembled  like  an 
aspen-leaf.  "  I  love  you,  I  think  ;  but  I  can  never  marry 
you." 

She  said  it  so  simply,  yet  with  such  an  earnestness  of 
despair,  that  Cyril  knew  with  a  pang  she  really  meant  it. 

"Why  not?,"  he  cried,  eagerly,  raising  her  hand  to  his  lips, 
and  kissing  it  with  fervor.  "  If  you  tell  me  you  love  me, 
Elma,  all  the  rest  mu.st  come.  Say  that,  and  you  say  all.  So 
long  as  I've  gained  your  heart,  I  don't  care  for  anything." 

Elma  drew  her  hand  away  with  stately  reserve.  "  I  mean  it, 
Mr.  Waring,"  she  said,  slowly,  sitting  down  on  the  bank  and 
gasping  a  little  for  air,  just  as  she  had  done  in  the  tunnel. 
"  I  really  mean  it.  I  /i/:et/  you  in  the  train  that  day  ;  I  was 
grateful  to  you  in  the  accident ;  I  know  I  laved  you  the  after- 
noon we  met  at  the  Holkers'.  There,  I've  told  you  that  plainly 
— more  plainly  than  I  thought  I  ever  could  tell  it  to  any  man 
on  earth — because  we  knew  one  another  so  well  when  we 
thought  we  were  dying  side  by  side,  and  because — because  I 
can  see  you  really  love  me.  .  .  .  Well,  it  can  never  be.  I  can 
never  marry  you." 

She  gazed  at  him  wistfully.  Cyril  sat  down  by  her  side, 
and  talked  it  all  over  with  her  from  a  hundred  points  of  view. 


WHA  r  S  BRKD  IN   THE  BONE. 


inswered 
ou  very, 
i  tunnel, 
I  was — 

la, "  the 
1  in  his, 
e  it?  I 
u  if  you 
1." 

She  let 
ind  gaze 
couldn't 
/  him  — 
/  inter- 
ced. 

^  as  she 
nother's 
ler,  that 
between 

like  an 
r  marry 

jiess  of 
it. 

lis  lips, 
)ve  me, 
ill.     So 

nean  it, 
ink  and 

tunnel. 

I  was 

e  after- 

plainly 
ly  man 
len  we 
cause  I 
I  can 

;r  side, 
f  view. 


He  pressed  his  suit  hard,  till  Elma  felt,  if  words  could  win, 
her  painter  would  have  won  her.  But  she  couldn't  yield,  she 
said  ;  for  M's  sake,  a  thousand  times  more  than  for  her  own, 
she  must  never  marry.  As  the  man  grew  more  earnest  the 
girl  in  turn  grew  more  frank  and  confiding.  She  could  never 
marry  //////,  to  be  sure,  she  said,  fervently;  but  then  she  could 
never,  never,  never  marry  anyone  else.  If  she  married  at  all, 
she  would  marry  Cyril.  He  took  her  hand  again.  Without 
one  shadow  of  resistance,  she  let  him  take  it  and  hold  it.  Ves, 
yes,  he  might  love  her,  if  he  liked — no  harm  at  all  in  that;  and 
s/ie,  she  would  always,  always  love  him.  All  her  life  through, 
she  cried,  Idling  lu*r  passionate  southern  nature  get  the  better 
of  her  at  last,  she  would  love  him  every  hour  of  every  day  in 
the  year,  and  love  him  only;  but  she  could  never  marry  him. 
Why,  she  must  never  say.  It  was  no  use  his  trying  to  read 
her  .secret.  He  must  never  find  it  out ;  never,  never,  never  ! 
But  she,  for  her  part,  could  never  forget  it. 

So  Cyril,  eagerly  pressing  his  suit  with  every  art  he  knew, 
was  forced  in  the  end  to  content  himself  with  that  scanty 
measure.  She  would  love  him,  she  would  write  to  him,  even; 
but  she  would  never  marry  him. 

At  last  the  time  came  when  they  must  really  part,  or  she 
would  be  late  for  lunch,  and  mamma  would  know  all  ;  mamma 
would  read  everything.  He  looked  her  wistfully  in  the  face. 
Elma  held  out  her  lips,  obedient  to  that  mute  demand,  with 
remorseful  blush  of  maidenly  shame  on  her  cheek.  "Only 
once,"  she  murmured,  "just  to  seal  our  compact  —  for  the 
first  and  last  time.     You  go  away  to-morrow." 

"  That  was  before  you  said  you  loved  me,"  Cyril  cried,  with 
delight,  emboldened  by  success.  "  Mayn't  I  stay  on  now,  just 
one  little  week  longer  ? " 

At  the  proposal  Elma  drew  back  her  face  in  haste  before 
he  had  time  to  kiss  it,  and  answered,  in  a  very  serious  voice: 

"  Oh,  no,  don't  ask  me.  After  this,  I  daren't  stand  the  strain 
of  seeing  you  again — at  least  not  just  now — not  so  very,  very 
soon.  Please,  please  don't  ask  me.  Go  to-morrow,  as  you 
said.  If  you  don't,  I  can't  let  you."  She  blushed,  and  held 
out  her  blushing  face  once  more.  "Only  if  you  promise  me 
to  go  to-morrow,  mind,"  she  said,  with  a  half-coquettish,  half- 
tearful  smile  at  him. 

Cyril  hesitated  for  a  second.  He  was  inclined  to  temporize. 
"  Those  are  very  hard  terms,"  he  said.    Then  impulse  proved 


80 


what's   bred   in   THE",   BONE. 


too  much  for  him.  He  bent  forward  and  pressed  his  lips  ji)s^ 
once  on  that  olive-brown  cheek.  **  lUit  I  may  com  back 
again  very  soon,"  he  murnuired,  pushing  home  his  advantage. 
Eluui  s^^ized  his  hand  in  hers,  wrung  it  hard  and  ttiinii- 
lously,  and  then  turned  and  ran  like  a  f lightened  fawn,  with- 
out pausing  to  look  back,  down  the  path  homeward.  Yet  she 
whispered  one  broken  sentence  through  her  tears,  for  all  that, 
before  she  went. 

"1  shall  love  you  always,  but  spare  me,  spare  me." 
And  Cyril  was  left  behind  by  himself  in  the  wood,  com- 
pletely mystified. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


'ii 


STRUGGLE    AND    VICTORY. 

Elma  hurried  home  full  of  intense  misgivings.  .She  dreaded 
having  to  meet  her  mother's  eye.  How  on  earth  could  she 
hide  from  that  searching  glance  the  whole  truth  as  to  what 
had  happened  in  the  wood  that  morning?  When  she  reached 
home,  however,  she  learned  to  her  relief,  from  the  maid  who 
opened  the  door  to  her,  that  their  neighbor,  Mr.  Gilbert  (lil- 
dersleeve,  the  distinguished  Q.  C,  had  dropped  in  for  lunch; 
and  this  chance  diversion  supplied  Elma  with  a  little  fresh 
courage  to  face  the  inevitable.  She  went  straight  up  to  her 
own  room  the  moment  she  entered  the  house,  without  seeing 
her  mother,  and  there  she  wr'  .1,  bathing  her  face  copiously, 
till  some  minutes  after  the  ..mch-bell  had  rung,  for  she 
felt  sure  she  would  blush  crimson  when  she  met  her  mother; 
but  as  she  blushed  habitually  when  strangers  came  in,  the 
cause  of  it  might  thus,  perhaps,  she  vainly  flattered  herself, 
escape  even  those  lynx-like  eyes  of  Mrs.  Clifford's. 

The  great  Q.  C,  a  big,  overbearing  man,  with  a  pair  of  huge, 
burly  hands  that  somehow  seemed  to  form  his  chief  feature, 
was  a  little  bit  blustering  in  his  talk,  as  usual;  the  more  so 
because  he  had  just  learned  incidentally  that  something  had 
gone  wrong  between  his  daughter  Gwendoline  and  Granville 
Kelmscott.  For  though  that  little  episode  of  private  wooing 
had  run  its  course  nominally  without  the  knowledge  or  con- 
sent of  either  family,  Mr.  Gilbert  Gildersleeve,  at  least,  had 
none  the  less  been  aware  for  many  weeks  past  of  the  frequent 


WHAT  S  BRF.n    IN    TIIK   HONE. 


87 


meetings  between  (Iwendnlino  mihI  Granville  in  the  dell  just 
beyond  the  dispiitrd  boundary-line.  And  as  Mr.  (iililcrsleeve 
di.slikcd  Colonel  Kelniscott  of  Tilgate  l*ark  for  a  pig-headed 
es(juire  almoMl  as  cordially  as  Coloiu'l  Kelmseott  disliked  Mr. 
(iilckrsleeve,  in  return,  for  a  rascally  lawyer,  it  hid  given  the 
great  ().  C.  no  little  secret  satisfaction  in  liisown  soul  to  learn 
that  hi.s  daughter  Clwendoline  was  likely  to  marry  the  Col- 
onel's son  and  heir,  directly  against  the  wishes  and  con.sent  of 
his  father. 

Only  that  very  morning,  however,  poor  Mrs.  Gildersleeve, 
that  tired,  crashed  wife,  hail  imparted  to  her  hjrd  and  master, 
in  fear  and  trembling,  the  unpleasant  intelligence  that,  so  far 
us  she  could  make  out,  there  was  something  wron^>  between 
Granville  and  Gwendoline;  and  this  something  wrong,  she 
ventured  to  suggest,  was  no  mere  lover's  tiff  of  the  ortlinary 
kiss-and-make-il-up  description,  but  a  really  serious  difficulty 
in  the  way  of  their  marriage.  So  Mr.  Gildersleeve,  thus  sud- 
denly deprived  of  his  expected  triumph,  took  it  out  another 
way  by  more  than  even  his  wonted  boisterousness  of  manner 
in  talking  about  the  fortunes  of  the  Kelniscott  lamily. 

"I  fancy  myself,  you  know,  Mrs.  Clifford,"  he  was  saying, 
very  loud,  as  Elma  entered,  "  there's  a  screw  loose  just  now 
in  the  Kelniscott  affairs — something  rotten  somewhere  in  the 
state  of  Denmark.  That  young  fellow,  Granville,  who's  by 
no  means  such  a  bad  lot  as  his  father  all  round — too  good  for 
the  family,  in  fact;  too  good  for  tlie  family — Granville's  been 
accustomed  of  late  to  come  over  into  my  grounds,  beyond  the 
boundary-wall;  and,  being  anxious  above  ail  things  to  culti- 
vate friendly  relations  with  all  my  neighbors  in  the  county, 
I've  allowed  him  to  come — I've  allowed  him,  and  \  may  even 
say  to  a  certain  extent  I've  encouraged  him.  There,  at  times, 
he's  met  by  accident  my  daughter  Gwendoline.  Oh,  dear, 
no!  "  with  uplifted  hand  and  deprecating  lips,  •'  I  assure  you, 
nothing  of  ///(//  sort,  my  dear  Mrs.  ClilTord,  Gwendoline's  far 
too  young,  and  I  couldn't  dream  of  allowing  her  to  nuirry 
into  Colonel  Kclmscott's  family.  Hut,  however,  be  that  as  it 
may,  he's  been  in  the  habit  of  coming  there  till  very  recently, 
when  all  of  a  sudden,  only  a  week  or  ten  days  back,  to  my 
immense  surprise,  he  ceased  at  once,  and  ever  since  has 
dropped  into  the  defensive,  exactly  as  he  used  to  do.  And  I 
interpret  it  to  mean — " 

Elma  heard  no  more  of  that  pompous  speech.     Her  knees 


88 


vhat's  bred  in  the  bone. 


■• 


Hi 


?lt" 


shook  under  her.  For  she  was  aware  only  of  Mrs.  Clififord's 
eyes,  fixed  mildly  and  calmly  upon  her  fa  ;,  not  in  anger,  as 
she  feared,  or  reproach,  but  rather  in  in-  lite  pity.  For  a 
second  their  glances  met  in  mute  intercourse  of  soul,  then 
each  dropped  their  eyelashes  as  suddenly  as  before.  Through 
the  rest  of  that  lunch  Elnia  sat  as  in  a  maze,  hearing  and 
seeing  nothing.  What  she  ate,  or  drank,  or  talked  about,  she 
knew  not.  Mr.  Gildersleeve's  pungent  and  embellished  anec- 
dotes of  the  Kelmscott  family  and  their  unneighborly  pride 
went  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at  the  other.  All  she  was  conscious  of 
was  her  mother's  sympathetic,  yet  unerring  eye;  she  felt  sure 
that  at  one  glance  that  wonderful  thought-reader  had  divined 
everything,  and  seen  through  and  through  their  interview 
that  morning. 

After  lunch,  the  two  men  strolled  upon  the  lawn  to  enjoy 
their  cigars,  and  Elma  and  her  mother  were  left  alone  in  the 
drawing-room. 

For  some  minutes  neither  could  make  up  her  mind  to  break 
the  ice  and  speak.  They  sat  shame-faced  beside  one  another 
on  the  sofa,  like  a  pair  of  shy  and  frightened  maidens.  At 
last  Mrs.  Clifford  braced  herself  up  to  interrupt  the  awkward 
silence.  "You've  been  in  Chetwood  forest,  Elma,"  she  mur- 
mured low,  looking  down  and  averting  her  eyes  carefully  from 
her  trembling  daughter. 

"Yes,  mother,"  Elma  answered,  all  aglow  with  conscious 
blushes.     "In  Chetwood  forest." 

"And  you  met  him,  dear?"  The  mother  spoke  tenderly 
and  sympathetically. 

Elma's  heart  stood  still.      "  Yes,  mother,  I  met  him." 

"  And  he  had  the  snake  there?  " 

Elma  started  in  surprise.  Why  dwell  upon  that  seemingly 
uniir  portant  detail?  "  Oh,  yes,"  she  answered,  still  redder 
and  hotter  than  ever;  "he  had  it  there.  He  was  painting 
it." 

Mrs.  Clifford  paused  a  moment;  then  she  went  on  with 
pain.     "And  he  asked  you,  Elma." 

Elma  bowed  her  head.  "  Yes,  he  asked  me — and  I  refused 
him,"  she  answered,  with  a  terrible  wrench. 

"Oh,  darling,  I  know  it!"  Mrs.  Clifford  cried,  seizing  both 
cold  hands  in  hers.  "  And  I  know  why,  too.  But,  Elma,  be- 
lieve me,  you  needn't  have  done  it.  My  daughter,  my  daugh- 
ter, you  might  just  as  well  have  taken  him!" 


WHAT  S    BRE^    IN    THE    BONE. 


89 


with 


**  No,  never/'  Elma  cried,  rising  from  her  seat  and  moving 
toward  the  door  in  an  agony  of  shame.  '*  I  couldn't.  1 
daren't.  It  would  be  wrong.  It  would  be  cruel.  But,  mother, 
don't  speak  to  me  of  it.  Don't  mention  it  again.  Even  before 
you,  it  makes  me  more  wretched  and  ashamed  than  I  can  say 
to  allude  to  it." 

She  rushed  from  the  room,  with  cheeks  burning  like  fire. 
Come  what  might,  she  never  could  talk  to  any  living  soul  again 
about  that  awful  episode. 

JJut  Mrs.  Clifford  sat  on,  on  the  sofa  where  Elma  left  her, 
and  cried  to  herself  silently,  silcnlly,  silently.  What  a  mother 
should  do  in  these  hateful  circumstances  she  could  hardly 
even  guess.  She  only  knew  she  could  never  speak  it  out,  and 
even  if  she  did,  Elma  would  never  have  the  courage  or  the 
heart  to  listen  to  her. 

That  same  evening,  when  Elma  went  up  to  bed,  a  strange 
longing  came  across  her  to  sit  up  late,  and  think  over  to  herself 
again  all  the  painful  details  of  the  morning's  interview.  She 
seated  herself  by  her  bedside  in  her  evening  dress,  and  began 
to  think  it  all  out  again,  exactly  as  it  happened.  As  she  did 
so,  the  picture  of  Sardanapalus,  on  his  bed  of  fern,  came  up 
clear  in  her  mind,  just  as  he  lay  coiled  round  in  Cyril  Waring's 
landscape.  Beautiful  Sardanapalus,  .so  sleek  and  smooth  and 
glossy,  if  only  she  had  him  here  now — siie  paused  and  hesi- 
tated. In  a  moment  the  wild  impulse  rushed  on  her  once 
more.  It  clutched  her  by  the  throat;  it  held  her  fast  as  in  a 
vise.  She  must  get  up  and  dance;  she  must  obey  the  man- 
date; she  must  whirl  till  she  fell  in  that  mystical  ecstasy. 

She  rose,  and  seemed  for  a  moment  as  though  she  must 
yield  to  the  temptation.  The  boa — the  boa  was  in  the  lower 
drawer.  Reluctantly,  remorsefully,  she  opened  the  drawer 
and  took  it  out  in  her  hands.  Fluff  and  feathers,  fluff  and 
feathers — nothing  more  than  that!  But  oh,  how  soft,  hov 
smooth,  how  yielding,  how  serpentine!  With  a  violent  effort 
she  steadied  herself,  and  looked  around  for  her  scissors.  They 
lay  on  the  dressing-table.  She  took  them  up  uilh  a  fixed  and 
determined  air.  *'If  thy  riyht  hand  offend  thee,  cut  it  off," 
she  thought  to  herself.  Then  she  be;;an  rutlilessly  hacking 
the  boa  into  short  iittle  lengths  of  a  few  inches  each,  which 
she  gathered  up  in  her  hands  as  soon  as  she  nad  finished,  and 
replaced  with  care  in  the  drawer  where  she  had  originally 
found  them. 


90 


WHAT  S  BRF.D   IN    THE   BONE. 


'I 


!■'  .* 


'    I 


After  that  her  mind  felt  somewhat  more  at  ease  and  a  trifle 
less  turbulent.  She  loved  Cyril  Wariii}; — oh,  yes,  she  loveo 
him  with  all  her  heart.  It  was  hard  to  '^'ivc  him  up;  hard  not 
to  yield  to  that  pressinjif  impulse  in  siuh  a  niomciiL  of  tlouht 
and  despondency.  The  boa  had  said  to  her,  as  it  were,  "  Come, 
dance,  go  mad,  and  for«4rt  your  trouble!  "  IJut  she  had  resisted 
the  temptation.     And  now — ■ 

Why,  now,  she  would  undress  and  creep  into  bed,  like  any 
other  j;ood  Enj^lish  j;irl  under  similar  circumstances,  and  cry 
herself  asleep  witii  thoughts  of  Cyril. 

And  so  she  did,  in  truth.  She  let  her  emotion  take  ils 
natural  outlet.  She  lay  awake  for  an  hour  or  two,  till  lur 
eyes  were  red  and  sore  and  swollen.  Then  at  last  she  droppcil 
off,  for  Very  weariness,  and  slept  soundly  an  unbroken  sleep 
till  mornmg. 

At  eijrht  o'clock  Mrs.  Clifford  knocked  her  tentative  little 
knock  at  the  door.  "Come  in,  mother,"  Klma  cried,  starting 
up  in  her  surprise;  and  her  mother,  much  wondering,  turned 
the  handle  and  entered. 

When  she  reached  the  bed,  she  gave  a  little  cry  of  ainaze- 
ment.  "Why,  Elma,"  she  exclaimed,  staring  her  hard  and 
long  in  the  face;  "my  darling,  what's  this?  Your  eyes  are 
red!    How  strange!     You've  been  crying!  " 

"  Ye.s,  mother,"  Elma  answereil,  tiu-ning  her  face  to  the  wall, 
but  a  thousand  times  less  ashamed  than  she  had  been  the  day 
before  when  her  motiier  spoke  to  her.  "  I  couldn't  help  it, 
dearest."  She  took  that  soft,  w^hite  hand  in  hers  and  pressed 
it  hard  in  silence.  "  It's  no  wonder,  you  know,"  she  said  at 
last,  after  a  long,  deep,  i)ause.  "  He's  going  away  from  Cliet- 
wood  to-day — and  it  was  so  very,  very  hard  to  say  good-bye 
lo  him  forever.'* 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know,  darling,"  Mrs.  Clifford  answered,  eying 
her  harder  than  ever  now,  with  a  half-incredulous  look.  "  I 
know  all  that.  But — you've  had  a  good  night  in  spite  of 
everything,  Elma." 

Elma  guessed  what  she  meant.  They  two  could  converse 
together  quite  plainly  without  words.  "  Well,  yes,  a  bettei 
night,"  she  answered,  hesitating,  and  shutting  her  eyes  under 
the  bed  clothes  for  very  shame.  "A  little  disturbed — don't 
you  know — just  at  first;  but  I  had  a  good  cry  very  soon,  and 
then  that  mended  everything." 

Her  mother   still  looked  at  her,  half  doubting  and   half- 


WHAT  S   BRED    IN    THE    BONE. 


91 


delighted.  '*  A  good  cry's  the  right  thing,"  she  said,  slowly,  in 
a  very  low  voice — "  the  exact  right  thing;  perfectly  proper 
aiul  normal.  A  good  cry  never  did  any  girl  on  this  earth  one 
atom  of  harm.  It's  the  best  safety-valve.  Vou'rc  lucky, 
Ehna,  my  cliild,  in  being  able  to  get  one." 

"  Vcs,  dear,"  Elma  answered,  with  her  head  still  buried; 
"  very  lucky  indeed.     So  I  think,  too,  niolher." 

Mrs,  CliUord's  eye  fell  aimlessly  upon  certain  tiny  bits  of 
feathery  fluff  that  flecked  the  lloor  hero  aiul  there  ikc  floating 
fragments  of  thisile-down.  In  a  seeonil,  her  keen  instinct 
tlivined  what  they  meant.  Without  one  word,  she  rose  silently 
and  noiselessly  and  openeil  the  hnver  drawer,  where  the  boa 
usually  reposed  among  the  furs  and  feathers.  One  glimi)se 
of  those  mangled  morsels  showed  her  tiic  truth  at  a  glance. 
She  shut  the  drawer  again  n<Mselessly  and  silently,  as  she  had 
opened  it.  IJut  Klma,  lying  slill  with  her  (  yes  closed  tight, 
yet  knew  perfectly  well  how  her  mother  had  been  occupied. 

Mrs.  Clifford  came  bai:k,  and  stooping  over  her  daughter's 
bed,  kissed  her  forehead  tenderly.  "Elma,  darling,"  she  said, 
while  a  hot  tear  or  two  fell  silently  upon  the  girl's  burning 
cheek,  *'  you're  very,  very  brave.  I'm  so  pleased  with  you,  so 
l)roud  of  you!  I  couldn't  have  done  it  myself.  You're 
stronger-minded  than  I  am.  My  child,  he  kissed  you  for 
good-bye  yesterday.  You  needn't  say  yes,  you  needn't  say  no, 
I  read  it  in  your  face.  No  need  ft)r  you  to  tell  me  of  it.  Well, 
darling,  it  wa>n't  good-bye,  after  all,  I'm  certain  of  that,  Believe 
me,  my  child,  he'll  come  back  some  day,  and  you'll  know  you 
can  marry  him." 

"Never!"  l''.lma  cried,  hiding  her  face  still  more  passion- 
ately and  wildly  than  before  beneath  great  folds  of  the  bed- 
clothes. "Don't  s()eak  to  mc  of  bim  any  more,  mother! 
Never!   never!   never! " 


P' 


CliATTKR    XVII. 


VISIONS    OF    WKAI/ni. 


Cyril  Waring,  thus  dismissed,  and  as  in  honor  bound,  hur- 
ried up  to  London,  with  a  mind  pre(>t:cupie(|  by  many  pressing 
(K)idns  and  misgivings.  He  thought  much  of  Elma,  but  he 
thought  rnuch,  too,  of  sundry  strange  events  that  had  happened 


02 


what's  bred  is  the  bone. 


of  late  to  his  own  private  fortunes.  For  one  thing,  he  had 
sold,  and  sold  mysteriously,  at  a  very  good  price,  the  picture 
of  Sardanapalus  in  the  glade  at  Chetwood.  A  well-known 
London  dealer  had  written  down  to  him  at  Tilgate,  making  an 
excellent  offer  for  the  unfinished  work,  as  soon  as  it  should  be 
ready,  on  behalf  of  a  customer  whose  name  he  didn't  happen 
to  mention.  And  who  could  that  customer  be,  Cyril  thought 
to  himself,  but  Colonel  Kelmscott?  Hut  that  wasn't  all.  The 
dealer,  who  had  offered  him  a  round  sum  down  for  "The 
Rajah's  Rest,"  had  also  at  the  same  time  commissioned  him  to 
go  over  to  the  Belgian  Ardennes  to  paint  a  picture  or  two,  at 
a  specified  price,  of  certain  selected  scenes  upon  the  Meuse  and 
its  tributaries.  The  price  offered  for  the  work  was  a  very 
respectable  one,  and  yet — he  had  some  internal  misgivings, 
somehow,  about  this  mysterious  commission.  Could  it  be  to 
get  rid  of  him?  He  had  an  uncomfortable  suspicion,  in  the 
back  chambers  of  his  mind,  t'  at  whoever  had  commissioned 
the  pic'.ures  might  be  more  anxious  to  send  him  well  away 
from  Tilgate  than  to  possess  a  series  of  picturesque  sketches 
on  the  ^Ieuse  and  its  tributaries. 

And  who  could  have  an  interest  in  keeping  him  far  from 
Tilgate?  That  was  the  question.  Was  there  anybody  whom 
his  presence  there  could  in  any  way  incommode?  Could  it  be 
Elma's  father  who  wanted  to  send  him  so  quickly  away  from 
England? 

And  what  was  the  meaning  of  Elma's  profound  resolution, 
so  strangely  and  strongly  expressed,  never,  never  to  marry 
him? 

A  painful  idea  flitted  across  the  young  man's  puzzled  brain. 
Had  the  Cliffords  alone  discovered  the  secret  of  his  birth,  and 
was  that  secret  of  such  a  disgraceful  sort  that  Elma's  father 
shrunk  from  owning  him  as  a  prospective  son-in-law,  while 
even  Elma  herself  could  not  bring  herself  to  accept  him  as  her 
future  husband?  If  so,  what  could  that  ghastly  secret  be? 
Were  he  and  Guy  the  inheritors  of  some  deadly  crime?  Had 
their  origin  been  concealed  from  them,  more  in  mercy  than  in 
cruelty,  only  lest  some  hideous  taint  of  murder  or  of  madness 
might  mar  their  future,  and  make  their  whole  lives  miserable? 

When  he  reached  Staple  Inn,  he  found  Guy  and  Montague 
Nevitt  already  in  their  joint  rooms,  and  arrears  of  three  days' 
correspondence  awaiting  him. 

A  close  observer,  like  Elma  Clifford,  might  perhaps  have 


fe. '  . 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


93 


noted  in  Montague  Nevitt's  eye  certain  well-restiained  symp- 
toms of  suppressed  curiosity.  Hut  Cyril  Waring,  in  his 
straightforward,  simple  English  manliness,  was  not  sharp 
enough  to  perceive?  that  Ncvitt  watched  him  close  while  he 
Droke  the  envelopes  and  glanced  over  his  letters;  or  that  Nev- 
itt's keen  anxiety  grew  at  once  far  deep^  and  more  carefully 
concealed  as  Cyril  turned  to  one  big  missive  with  an  official- 
looking  seal  and  a  distinctly  important  legal  aspect.  On  the 
contrary,  to  the  outer  eye  or  ear  all  that  could  be  observed  in 
Montague  Nevitt's  manner  was  the  nervous  way  he  went  on 
tightening  his  violin-strings  with  a  tremulous  hand  and  whis- 
tling low  to  himself  a  few  soft  and  tender  buis  of  some  mel- 
ancholy scrap  from  Miss  Ewes'  r«  ry. 

As  Cyril  read  through  that  lettci,  tiuwever,  his  breath  came 
and  went  in  short  little  gasps,  and  his  cheek  flushed  hotly 
with  a  sudden  and  overpovvi    mg  flood  of  emotion. 

"  What's  the  matter.''"  Guy  asked,  looking  over  hi? shoulder 
curiously.  And  Cyril,  almost  faint  with  the  innumjiuble  ideas 
and  suspicions  that  the  tidings  conjured  up  in  his  brain  at 
once,  said,  with  an  evident  effort,  "Read  it,  Guy;  read  it." 

Guy  took  the  letter  and  read,  Montague  Nevitt  gazing  at  it 
by  his  side  meanwhile  with  profound  interest. 

As  soon  as  they  had  glanced  through  its  carefully  worded 
sentences,  each  drew  a  long  breath  and  stared  hard  at  the 
other.  Then  Cyril  added,  in  a  whirl,  "And  here's  a  letter 
from  my  own  bankers,  saying  they  have  duly  received  the  six 
thousand  pounds  and  put  it  to  my  credit." 

Guy's  face  was  i  ale,  but  he  faltered  out,  none  the  less,  with 
ashy  lips,  staring  hard  at  the  words  all  the  time,  "  It  isn't  only 
the  money,  of  course,  one  thinks  about,  Cyril,  but  the  clue  it 
seems  to  promise  us  to  our  father  and  mother." 

"  Exactly,"  Cyril  answered,  with  a  responsive  nod.  "  The 
money  I  won't  take — I  don't  know  what  it  means;  but  the 
clue  I'll  follow  up  till  I've  run  to  earth  the  whole  truth  about 
who  we  are  and  where  we  come  from." 

Montague  Nevitt  glanced  quickly  from  one  to  the  other  with 
an  incredulous  air.  "Not  take  the  money!  "  he  exclaimed,  in 
cynical  surprise.  "Why,  of  course  you'll  take  it!  Twelve 
thousand  pounds  isn't  to  be  sneezed  at  in  these  days,  I  can  tell 
you.  And  as  for  the  clue — why,  there  isn't  any  clue.  Not  a 
jot  or  a  tittle,  a  ghost  or  a  shadow  of  it.  The  unnatural 
parent,  whoever  be  may  be — for  I  take  it  for  granted  the 


..K.. 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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1.0 


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1^    1.2.2 


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1.6 


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Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STRUT 

WlkSTH.N.Y.  MStO 

(716)  172-4303 


iV 


'^ 


■^ 


'a 


1 


u 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


I*  V 


w 


unnatural  parent's  the  person  at  the  bottom  of  the  offer- 
takes  jolly  good  care  not  to  let  you  know  who  on  earth  he  is. 
He  wraps  himself  up  in  a  double  cloak  of  mystery.  Drum- 
monds'  pay  in  the  money  to  your  account  at  your  own  bank, 
you  see,  and  while  they're  authorized  to  receive  your  acknowl- 
edgment of  the  sum  remitted,  they  are  clearly  //cV authorized  to 
receive  to  the  sender's  credit  any  return  check  for  the  amount, 
or  cash  in  repayment.  The  u-matural  parent  evidently  intends 
to  remain,  for  the  present  at  least,  strictly  anonymous." 

**  Couldn't  you  lind  out  for  us  at  Drummond,  Coutts  cV 
Barclay's  who  the  sender  is  ?"  Guy  asked,  with  some  hesita- 
tion, still  turning  over  in  his  hand  the  mysterious  letter. 

Nevitt  shook  his  head  with  i)rompt  decision,  "No;  cer- 
tainly not,"  he  answered,  assuming  an  air  of  the  severest  prob- 
ity. "It  would  be  absolutely  impossible.  The  secrets  in  a 
bank  are  secrets  of  honor.  We  are  the  depositaries  of  tales 
that  might  ruin  thousands,  and  we  never  say  a  word  about  one 
of  them  to  anybody." 

As  for  Cyril,  he  felt  himself  almost  too  astonished  for 
words.  It  was  long  before  he  could  even  discuss  the  matter 
quietly.  The  who'e  episode  seemed  so  strange,  so  mysterious, 
so  uncanny.  And  no  wonder  he  hesitated;  for  the  unknown 
writer  of  the  letter  with  the  legal  seal  luid  proposed  a  most 
curious  and  unsatisfactory  arrangement.  Six  thousand  pounds 
down  on  the  nail  to  Cyril,  six  thousand  more  in  a  few  weeks 
to  Guy;  but  not  for  nothing.  As  in  all  law  business,  "  valu- 
able consideration  "  loomed  large  in  the  background.  They 
were  both  to  repair,  on  a  given  day,  at  a  given  hour,  to  a  given 
office,  ill  a  given  street,  where  they  were  to  sign  without 
inquiry,  and  even  without  perusal,  whatever  documents  might 
then  and  there  be  presented  to  them.  This  course,  the  Avriter 
pointed  out,  with  perspicuous  plainness,  was  all  in  the  end  to 
their  own  greater  advantage;  for  unless  they  signed,  they 
would  get  nothing  more,  and  it  would  be  useless  for  them  to 
attempt  the  unraveling  of  the  mystery.  But  if  they  con- 
sented to  sign,  then,  the  writer  declared,  the  anonymous  bene- 
factor, £it  whose  instigation  he  wrote,  would  leave  them  by  his 
will  a  further  substantial  sum,  not  one  penny  of  which  would 
ever  otherwise  come  to  them. 

And  Montague  Nevitt,  as  a  man  of  business,  looking  the 
facts  in  the  face  without  sentiment  or  nonsense,  advised  them 
to  sign  and  make  the  best  of  a  good  bargain. 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


m 


For  Montague  Nevitt  saw  at  once  in  his  own  mind  that  this 
course  would  prove  the  most  useful  in  the  end  for  his  own 
iiiterests,  both  aa  regards  the  Warings  and  Colonel  Klemscott. 

The  two  persons  most  concerned,  however,  viewed  the  mat- 
ter in  a  very  different  light.  To  them,  this  letter,  w'th  its 
obscure  half-hints,  opened  up  a  chance  of  solving  at  last  the 
mystery  of  their  position,  which  had  so  long  oppressed  them. 
They  might  now,  perhaps,  find  out  who  they  really  were,  if 
only  they  could  follow  up  this  pregnant  clue;  and  the  clue 
itself  suggested  so  many  things. 

*'  Whatever  else  it  shows,"  Guy  said,  emphatically,  "it  shows 
we  must  be  the  lawful  sons  of  some  person  of  property,  or 
else  why  should  he  want  us  to  sign  away  our  rights  like  this, 
all  blindfold  ?  And  whatever  the  rights  themselves  may  be, 
the_,  must  be  very  considerable,  or  else  why  should  he  bribe 
us  so  heavily  to  sign  ourselves  out  of  them  ?  Depend  upon  it, 
Nevitt,  it's  an  entailed  estate,  and  the  man  who  dictated  that 
letter  is  in  possession  of  the  property  which  ought  to  belong 
to  Cyril  and  me.  For  my  part,  I'm  opposed  to  all  bargaining 
in  the  dark.  I'll  sign  nothing,  and  I'll  give  away  nothing, 
without  knowing  what  it  is;  and  that's  what  I  advise  Cyril 
to  write  back  and  tell  him." 

Cyril,  however,  was  revolving  in  his  own  mind  meanwhile  a 
still  more  painful  question.  Could  it  be  any  blood  relationship 
between  himself  and  Elma,  unknown  to  him,  but  just  made 
known  to  her,  that  gave  rise  to  her  firm  and  obviously  recent 
determination  never  to  marry  him  ?  A  week  or  two  since,  he 
was  sure,  Elma  knew  of  no  cause  or  just  impediment  why 
they  should  not  be  joined  together  in  holy  matrimony.  Could 
she  have  learned  it  meanwhile,  before  she  met  him  in  the 
wood,  and'could  the  fact  of  her  so  learning  it  have  thus  pricked 
the  slumbering  conscience  of  thei'  unknown  kinsman  or  their 
supposed  supplanter  ? 

They  sat  there  long  and  late,  discussing  the  question  from 
all  possible  standpoints — save  the  one  thus  silently  started  in 
his  own  mind  by  Cyril.  But  in  the  end,  Cyril's  resolution  re- 
mained unshaken.  He  would  leave  the  six  thousand  pounds 
in  the  bank,  untouched;  but  he  would  write  back  at  once  to 
the  unknown  sender,  declining  plainly,  once  for  all,  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  it  or  with  tlie  proposed  transactions.  If 
anything  was  his  by  right,  he  would  take  it  as  of  right,  but  he 
would  be  no  party  to  such  hole-and-corner  renunciations  of 


96 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


»! 


;f, 


unknown  contingencies  as  the  writer  suggested.  If  the  writer 
was  willing  to  state  at  once  all  the  facts  of  the  i.ase,  in  clear 
and  succinct  language,  and  to  come  to  terms  thus  openly  with 
himself  and  his  brother,  why  then,  Cyril  averred,  he  was  ready 
to  promise  they  would  deal  with  his  claims  in  a  spirit  of  the 
utmost  generosity  and  consideration;  but  if  this  was  an 
attempt  to  do  them  out  of  their  rights  by  a  fraudulent  bribe, 
be,  for  one,  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  it.  He  would  there- 
fore hold  the  six  thousand  pounds  paid  in  to  his  account 
entirely  at  his  anonymous  correspondent's  disposition. 

"  And  as  there  isn't  any  use  in  my  wasting  the  summer, 
Guy,"  he  said,  in  conclusion,  "  I  won't  let  this  red  herring 
trailed  across  my  path  prevent  me  from  going  over  at  once,  as 
I  originally  intended,  to  Dinant  and  Spa,  and  fulfilling  the 
commission  for  those  pictures  of  Dale  &  Norton's.  You 
and  Nevitt  can  see  meanwhile  what  it's  possible  for  us  to  do 
in  the  matter  of  hunting  up  this  family  mystery.  You  can 
telegraph  if  you  want  me,  and  I'll  come  back  at  once.  But 
more  than  ever  now  I  feel  the  need  of  redeeming  the  time  and 
working  as  hard  as  I  can  go  at  my  profession." 

"Well,  yes,"  Guy  answered,  as  if  both  their  choughts  ran 
naturally  in  the  self-same  channel,  "I  agree  with  you  there. 
She's  been  accustomed  to  luxury.  No  man  has  a  right  to 
marry  any  girl  if  he  can't  provide  for  her  in  the  comfort  and 
style  she's  always  been  used  to.  And  from  that  point  of  view, 
when  one  looks  it  in  the  face,  Cyril,  six  thousand  pounds 
would  come  in  handy," 


1 


t"ii 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


GENTLE  WOOER. 


Mr.  Montague  Nevitt  rubbed  his  hands  with  delight  in  the 
sacred  privacy  of  his  own  apartment.  Mi  Nevitt,  indeed,  had 
laid  his  plans  deep.  He  had  everybody's  secrets,  all  round,  in 
his  hands,  and  he  meant  to  make  everybody  pay  dear  in  the 
end  for  his  information. 

Mr.  Nevitt  was  free.  His  holidays  were  on  at  Drummond, 
Coutts  <*^'  Barclay's,  Limited.  He  loved  the  sea,  the  sun,  and 
the  summer.  He  was  off  that  day  on  a  projected  series  of 
short  country  runs,  in  which  it  was  his  intention  strictly  to 


i^\i 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


97 


combine  business  and  pleasure.  Dartmoor,  for  example,  as 
everybody  knows,  is  a  most  delightful  and  bracing  tourist  dis- 
trict; but  what  more  amusing  to  a  man  of  taste  than  to  go  a 
round  of  the  moor  with  its  heather-clad  tors,  and  at  the  same 
time  hunt  up  the  parish  registers  of  the  neighborhood  for  the 
purpose  of  discovering,  if  possible,  the  supposed  marriage 
record  of  Colonel  Kelmscott  of  Tilgate  with  the  Warings' 
mother?  For  that  there  was  a  marriage  Montague  Nevitt 
felt  certain  in  his  own  wise  mind;  and  having  early  arrived 
at  that  correct  conclusion,  why,  he  had  quietly  offered  forth- 
with, in  the  Plymouth  papers,  a  considerable  reward  to  parish 
clerks  and  others  who  would  supply  him  with  any  information 
as  to  the  births,  marriages,  or  deaths  of  any  person  or  persons 
of  the  name  of  Waring  for  some  eighteen  months  or  so  before 
or  after  the  reputed  date  when  Guy  and  Cyril  began  their 
earthly  pilgrimage. 

For  deaths,  Nevitt  said  to  himself,  with  a  sinister  smile, 
were  every  bit  as  important  to  him  as  births  or  marriages. 
He  knew  the  date  of  Colonel  Kelmscott's  wedding  with  Lady 
Emily  Croke,  and  if  at  that  date  wife  number  one  was  not  yet 
dead,  when  the  Colonel  took  to  himself  wife  number  two,  who 
now  did  the  honors  of  Tilgate  Park  for  him,  why,  there  you 
had  as  clear  and  convincing  a  case  of  bigamy  as  any  man  could 
wish  to  find  out  against  another,  and  to  utilize  some  day  for 
his  own  good  purposes. 

As  he  thought  these  thoughts,  Montague  Nevitt  gave  the 
last  delicate  twirl,  the  final  touch  of  art,  to  the  wire-like  ends 
of  his  waxed  mustache,  in  front  of  his  mirror,  and  after  sur- 
veying the  result  in  the  glass  with  considerable  satisfaction, 
proceeded  to  set  out,  on  very  good  terms  with  himself,  for 
his  summer  holiday. 

Devonshire,  however,  wasn't  his  first  destination.  Montague 
Nevitt,  besides  being  a  man  of  business  and  a  man  of  taste, 
was  also  in  due  season  a  man  of  feeling.  A  heart  beat  beneath 
that  white  rosebud  in  his  left  top  button-hole.  All  his  thoughts 
were  not  thoughts  of  greed  and  of  gain.  He  was  bound  to 
Tilgate  to-day,  and  to  see  a  lady. 

It  isn't  so  easy  in  England  to  see  a  lady  alone;  but  fortune 
favors  the  brave.  Luck  always  attended  Mr.  Montague  Nev- 
itt's  most  unimportant  schemes.  Hardly  had  he  got  into  the 
field-path  across  the  meadows  between  Tilgate  station  and 
the  grounds  of  Woodlands  than,  at  the  seat  by  the  bend, 


I 


98 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


:r  K 


I  i: 


what  should  he  see  but  a  lad^  sltthig  down,  in  an  airy  white 
summer  dress,  her  head  leaning  on  her  hand,  most  pensive  and 
melancholy.  Montague  Nevitt's  heart  gave  a  sudden  bound. 
In  luck  once  more!     It  was  Gwendoline  Gildersleeve. 

"Good-morning!  "  he  said,  briskly,  coming  up  before  Gwen- 
doline had  time  to  perceive  him — and  fly.  "  This  is  really 
most  fortunate.  I've  run  down  from  town  to-day  on  purpose 
to  see  you,  but  liardly  hoped  I  should  have  the  good  fortune 
to  get  a  tete-il-teie  with  you — at  least  so  easily.  I'm  so  glad 
I'm  in  time.  Now,  don't  look  so  cross.  You  must  at  any  rate 
admit,  you  know,  my  persistence  is  flattering." 

"  I  don't  feel  flattered  by  it,  Mr.  Nevitt,"  Gwendoline 
answered,  coldly,  holding  out  her  gloved  hand  to  him  with 
marked  disinclination.  "  I  thought  last  time  I  had  said  good- 
bye to  you  for  good  and  forever." 

Nevitt  took  her  hand,  and  held  it  in  his  own  a  trifle  longer 
than  was  strictly  necessary.  "  Now  don't  talk  like  that,  Gwen- 
doline," he  said,  coaxingly.  "Don't  crush  me  quite  flat. 
Remember,  at  least,  that  you  once  were  kind  to  me.  It  isn't 
my  fault,  surely,  if  /still  recollect  it." 

Gwendoline  withdrew  her  hand  from  his  with  yet  more  evi' 
dent  coolness.  "  Circumstances  alter  cases,"  she  said,  severely. 
"That  was  before  I  really  knew  you." 

"That  was  before  you  knew  Granville  Kelmscott,  you 
mean,"  Nevitt  responded,  with  an  unpleasantly,  knowing  air. 
"Oh,  yes ;  you  needn't  wince.  I've  heard  all  about  that.  It's 
my  basiness  to  hear  and  find  out  everything.  But  circum- 
stances alter  cases,  as  you  justly  say,  Gwendoline;  and  I've 
disco  7ered  some  circumstances  about  Granville  Kelmscott  that 
may  alter  the  case  as  regards  your  opinion  of  that  rich  young 
man,  whose  estate  weighed  down  a  poor  fellow  like  me  in 
what  you're  graciously  pleased  to  call  your  affections." 

Gwendoline  rose,  and  looked  down  at  the  man  contemptu- 
ously. "Mr.  Nevitt,"  she  said,  in  a  chilling  voice,  "you've  no 
right  to  call  me  Gwendoline  any  longer  now.  You've  no  right 
to  speak  to  me  of  Mr.  Granville  Kelmscott.  I  refused  your 
advances,  not  for  anyone  else's  sake,  or  anyone  else's  estate, 
but  sin^ply  and  solely  because  I  came  to  know  you  better  than 
I  knew  you  at  first ;  and  the  more  I  knew  of  you  the  less  I 
liked  you.  I  am  not  engaged  to  Mr.  Granville  Kelmscott.  I 
don't  mean  to  see  him  again.    I  don't  mean  to  marry  him." 

Nevitt  took  his  cue  at  once,  like  a  clever  hand  that  he  was, 


m. 


what's  bred  in    IHE  BONE. 


m 


*t 


:K 


and  followed  it  up  remorselessly.  "Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear 
that,  anyhow,"  he  answered,  assuming  a  careless  air  of  utter 
unconcern,  "for  your  sake  as  well  as  for  his,  Miss  Gilder- 
sleeve  ;  for  Granville  Kelmscott,  as  I  happen  to  know  in  the 
course  of  business,  is  a  ruined  man  —  a  ruined  man  this  mo- 
ment. He  isn't,  and  never  was,  the  heir  of  Tilgate;  and  I'm 
sure  it  was  very  honorable  of  him,  the  minute  he  found  he  was 
a  penniless  beggar,  to  release  you  from  such  an  unequal 
engagement." 

He  had  played  his  card  well.  He  had  delivered  his  shot 
neatly.  Gwendoline,  though  anxious  to  withdraw  from  his 
hateful  presence,  couldn't  help  but  stay  and  learn  more  about 
this  terrible  hint  of  his.  A  light  broke  in  upon  Iier  even  as 
the  fellow  spoke.  Was  it  this,  then,  that  had  mad.e  Granville 
talk  so  strangely  to  her  that  morning  by  the  dell  in  the  Wood- 
lands? Was  It  this  which,  as  he  told  her,  rendered  their  mar- 
riage impossible?  Why,  if  ^/lat  were  all  —  Gwendoline  drew 
a  deep  breath,  and  clasped  her  har.ds  together  in  a  sudden 
access  of  mingled  hope  and  despair.  "  Oh,  what  do  you  mean, 
Mr.  Nevitt?"  she  cried,  eagerly.  "What  can  Granville  have 
done  ?  Don't  keep  me  in  suspense.  Do  tell  iiie  what  you 
mean  by  it." 

Montague  Nevitt,  still  seated,  looked  up  at  her,  with  a  smile 
of  quiet  satisfaction.  He  played  with  her  for  a  moment,  as  a 
cat  plays  with  a  mouse.  She  was  such  a  beautiful  creature,  so 
tall  and  fair  and  graceful,  and  she  was  so  awfully  afraid,  and 
he  was  so  awfully  fond  of  her,  that  he  loved  to  torture  her 
thus,  and  hold  her  dangling  in  his  power,  "  No,  Gwendoline," 
he  said,  slowly,  drawing  his  words  out  by  driblets,  so  as  to 
prolong  her  suspense;  "I  oughtn't  to  have  mentioned  it  all. 
It's  a  professional  secret.  I  retract  what  I  said.  Forget  that 
I  said  it.  Excuse  me,  on  the  ground  of  my  natural  reluctance 
to  see  a  woman  I  still  love  so  deeply  and  so  purely  —  whatever 
she  may  happen  to  think  of  me — throw  herself  away  on  a  man 
without  a  name  or  a  penny.  However,  as  Kelmscott  seems  to 
have  done  the  honorable  thing  of  his  own  accord,  and  given 
you  up  the  minute  he  knew  he  couldn't  keep  you  in  the  way 
you've  been  accustomed  to  —  why,  there's  no  need,  of  course, 
of  any  warning  from  me.     I'll  say  no  more  on  the  subject." 

His  studied  air  of  mystery  piqued  and  drew  on  his  victim. 
Gwendoline  knew  in  her  own  heart  she  ought  to  go  at  once ; 
her  own  dignity  demanded  it,  and  she  should  consult  her  dig- 


■HI 


'R 


I 


100 


what's 


BRED   IX    THE   l^ONE. 


l>  '» 


^i.i' 


•^ 


nity.  But  still,  she  couldn't  help  longing  to  know  what 
Nevitt's  half-hints  and  innuendoes  might  mean.  After  all,  she 
was  a  woman!  "Oh,  do  tell  me,"  she  cried,  clasping  her 
hands  in  suspense  once  more;  "what  have  you  heard  about 
Mr.  Kelmscott?  I'm  not  engaged  to  him;  I  don't  want  to 
know  for  that,  but — " 

She  broke  down,  blushing  crimson,  and  Montague  Nevitt, 
gazing  fixedly  at  her  delicate,  peach-like  cheek,  remarked  to 
himself  how  extremely  well  that  blush  became  her. 

"No;  but  remember,"  he  said,  in  a  very  grave  voice,  in  his 
favorite  impersonation  of  the  man  of  hour  •,  "whatever  I  tell 
you  —  if  I  give  way  at  all,  and  tell  you  anything — you  must 
hear  in  confidence,  and  must  repeat  to  nobody.  ll  you  do 
repeat  it,  you  will  get  me  into  very  serious  trouble.  And  not 
only  so,  but  as  nobody  knows  it  except  myself,  you'll  as  good 
as  proclaim  to  all  the  world  that  you  heard  it  from  me.  If  I 
tell  you  what  I  know,  will  you  promise  me  this — not  to  breathe 
a  syllable  of  what  I  say  to  anybody?" 

Gwendoline,  glancing  down,  and  thoroughly  ashamed  of  her- 
self, yet  answered,  in  a  very  low  and  trembling  voice,  "  I'll 
promise,  Mr.  Nevitt." 

"  Then  the  facts  are  these,"  the  man  of  feeling  went  on, 
with  an  undercurrent  of  malicious  triumph  in  his  musical 
voice.  "  Kelmscott  is  iwt  his  father's  eldest  son.  He's  not, 
and  never  was,  the  heir  of  Tilgate.  More  than  that,  nobody 
knows  these  facts  but  myself.  And  I  know  the  true  heirs,  and 
I  can  prove  their  title.  Well,  now,  Miss  Gildersleeve  —  if  it's 
to  be  Miss  Gildersleeve  still  —  this  is  the  circumstance  that 
alters  the  case  as  regards  Granville  Kelmscott.  I  have  it  in 
my  hands  to  ruin  Kelmscott,  And  what  I've  taken  the  trouble 
to  come  down  and  say  to  you  to-day  is  simply  this —  for  your 
own  advantage,  beware,  at  least,  how  you  throw  yourself  away 
upon  a  penniless  man,  with  neither  name  nor  fortune  !  When 
you've  quite  got  over  that  dream,  you'll  be  glad  to  return  to 
the  man  you  threw  overboard  for  the  rich  squire's  son.  No 
circumstances  have  ever  altered  him.  He  loved  you  from  the 
first,  and  he  will  always  love  you." 

Gwendoline  looked  him  back  in  the  face  again,  as  pale  as 
death.  "  Mr.  Nevitt,"  she  said,  scornfully,  unmoved  by  his 
tale, "  I  do  not  love  you,  and  I  will  never  love  you.  You  have 
no  right  to  say  such  things  to  me  as  this.  I'm  glad  you've 
told  me;  for  I  know  now  what  Mr.  Kelmscott  meant.    And  if 


%.m 


WHAT  S    BRED    iN    THE    HONE. 


101 


he  war  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse,  I'd  marry  him  to-morrow. 
I  said  just  now  I  didn't  mean  to  marry  him.  I  retract  that 
word.  Circumstances  alter  cases,  and  what  you've  just  told 
me  alters  this  one.  I  withdraw  what  I  said.  I'll  marry  Gran- 
ville Kelmscott  to-morrow  if  he  asks  me." 

She  looked  down  at  him  so  proudly,  so  defiantly,  so  haugh- 
tily, that  Montague  Nevitt,  sitting  there,  with  his  cynical  smile 
on  his  thin,  red  lips,  flinched  and  wavered  before  her.  He 
saw  in  a  moment  the  game  was  up.  He  had  played  the  wrong 
card;  he  had  mistaken  his  woman,  and  tried  false  tactics.  It 
was  too  late  now  to  retreat.  An  empty  revenge  was  all  that 
remained  to  him.  "Very  well,"  lie  said,  sullenly,  looking  her 
back  in  the  face,  with  a  nasty  scowl  —  for  indeed  he  loved 
that  girl,  and  was  loath  to  lose  her —  "  remember  your  promise, 
and  say  nothing  to  anybody.  You'll  find  it  best  so  for  your  own 
reputation  in  the  end.  But  mark  my  words,  be  sure  I  won't 
spare  Granville  Kelmscott  now.  I'll  play  my  own  game.  I'll 
ruin  him  ruthlessly.  He's  in  my  power,  I  tell  you,  and  I'll 
crush  him  under  my  heel.  Well,  that's  settled  at  last.  I'm 
off  to  Devonshire  to-morrow  on  the  hunt  of  the  records  —  to 
the  skirts  of  Dartmoor  —  to  a  place  in  the  wilds  by  the  name 
of  Mambury." 

He  raised  his  hat,  and  curling  his  lip  maliciously,  walked 
away  without  even  so  much  as  shaking  hands  with  her.  He 
knew  it  was  all  up — that  game  was  lost;  and  being  a  man 
of  feeling,  he  regretted  it  bitterly. 

Gwendoline,  for  her  part,  hurried  home,  all  aglow  with 
remorse  and  excitement.  When  she  reached  the  house,  she 
went  straight  up  in  haste  to  her  own  bedroom.  In  spite  of  her 
promise,  all  woman  that  she  was,  she  couldn't  resist  sitting 
down  at  once  and  inditing  a  hurried  note  to  Granville  Kelm- 
scott. 


{( 


Dearest  Granville,"  it  said,  in  a  very  shaky  hand,  not 
unblurred  by  tears,  "  I  know  all  now,  and  I  wonder  you  thought 
it  could  ever  matter.  I  know  you're  not  the  eldest  son,  and 
that  somebody  else  is  the  heir  of  Tilgate;  and  I  care  for  all 
that  a  great  deal  less  than  nothing.  1  love  you  ten  thousand 
times  too  dearly  to  mind  one  pin  whether  you're  rich  or  poor; 
and,  rich  or  poor,  whenever  you  like,  I'll  marry  you. 
"  Yours  ever  devotedly  and  unalterably, 

"Gwendoline." 


103 


WHAT  S  BRED  IN  THE   BONE. 


She  sealed  it  up  in  hasU'^  and  ran  out  with  it,  all  tremors,  to 
the  post  by  herself.  Her  hands  were  hot.  She  was  in  a  high 
fever.  But  Mr.  Montague  Nevitt,  that  man  of  feeling,  thus 
balked  of  his  game,  walked  off  his  disappointment  as  well  as 
he  could  by  a  long,  smart  tramp  across  the  springy  downs, 
lunching  at  a  wayside  inn  on  bread  and  cheese  and  beer,  and 
descending  as  the  evening  shades  drew  in  on  the  ('uildford 
station.  Thence  he  ran  up  to  town  by  the  first  fast  train,  and 
sauntered  sulkily  across  Waterloo  Bridge  to  his  rooms  on  the 
Embankment.  As  he  went,  a  poster  caught  his  eye  on  the 
bridge.  It  riveted  his  attention  by  one  fatal  phrase:  ^^Finan- 
cial A^ews.  Collapse  of  the  Rio  Negro  Diamond  and  Sapphire 
Mines  ! " 

He  stared  at  the  placard  with  a  dim  sense  of  disaster. 
What  on  earth  could  this  mean  ?  It  fairly  took  his  breath 
away.  The  mines  were  the  best  things  out  this  season.  He 
held  three  hundred  shares  on  his  own  account.  If  this  rumor 
were  true,  he  had  let  himself  in  for  a  loss  of  a  clear  three 
thousand  ! 

But  being  a  person  of  restricted  sympathies,  he  didn't  reflect 
till  several  minutes  had  passed  that  he  must  at  the  same  time 
have  let  Guy  Waring  in  for  three  thousand  also. 


R« 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


SELF  OR  BEARER. 


At  Charing  Cross  station  Montague  Nevitt  bought  a  Finan- 
cial NewSy  and  proceeded  forthwith  to  his  own  rooms  to  read 
of  the  sudden  collapse  of  his  pet  speculation.  It  was  only 
too  true.  The  Rio  Negro  Diamond  and  Sapphire  Mines  had 
gone  entirely  in  one  of  the  periodical  South  American  crashes, 
which  involved  them  in  the  liabilities  of  several  other  com- 
panies. A  call  would  be  made  at  once  to  the  full  extent  of 
the  nominal  capital;  and  he  would  have  to  find  three  thou- 
sand pounds  down  to  meet  ihe  demand  on  his  credit  immedi- 
ately. 

Nevitt  hadn't  three  thousand  pounds  in  the  world  to  pay. 
The  little  he  possessed  beyond  his  salary  was  locked  up,  here 
and  there,  in  speculative  undertakings,  wherehe  couldn't  touch 


T 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


103 


it  except  at  long  notice.  It  was  a  crushing  blow.  He  had 
need  of  steadying.  Some  men  would  have  flown,  in  such  a 
plight,  to  brandy.  Montague  Nevitt  flew,  instead,  to  the  con- 
solations of  music. 

For  some  minutes,  indeed,  he  paced  his  room  up  and  down 
in  .solemn  silence.  Then  his  eye  fell  by  accident  on  the  violin- 
case  in  the  corner.  Ah,  that  would  do  !  That  beloved  violin 
would  inspire  him  with  ideas;  was  it  suicide  or  fraud,  or  some 
honest  way  out;  be  it  this  plan  or  that,  the  violin  would  help 
him.  Screwing  up  the  strings  for  a  minute  with  those  deft, 
long,  double-jointeil  fingers  of  his,  he  took  the  bow  in  his 
right  hand,  and  still  pacing  the  room  with  great  strides,  like  a 
wild  beast  in  its  cage,  began  to  discourse  low,  passionate 
music  to  himself  from  one  of  those  serpentine  pieces  of  Mis*' 
Ewes'  of  Leamington. 

As  he  played  and  played,  his  whole  soul  in  his  fingers,  a 
plan  began  to  frame  itself,  vaguely,  dimly  at  first,  then  mere 
and  more  definitely  by  slow  degrees  —  shape,  form,  and  fea- 
tures— as  it  grew  and  developed.  A  beautiful  chord,  that  lasl !' 
Oh,  how  subtle,  how  beautiful !  It  seemed  to  curl  and  glide 
on  like  a  serpent  through  the  grass,  leaving  strange  trails 
behind  as  of  a  flowing  signature;  a  flowing  signature  with 
bold  twirls  and  flourishes  —  twirls  and  flourishes — twirls  and 
flourishes  —  twirls,  twirls,  twirls  and  flourishes;  the  signature 
to  a  check;  to  a  check  for  money;  three  thousand  pounds  at 
Drummond,  Coutts  &  Barclay's. 

It  ran  through  his  head,  keeping  time  with  the  bars.  Four 
thousand  pounds;  five  thousand;  six  thousand. 

The  longer  he  played  the  clearer  and  sharper  the  plan  stood 
out.  He  saw  his  way  now  as  clear  as  daylight;  and  his  way, 
too,  to  make  a  deal  more  in  the  end  by  it. 

"  Pay  self  or  bearer  six  thousand  pounds  !  Six  thousand 
pounds!      Signed,  Cyril  Waring  !  " 

For  hours  he  paced  up  and  down  there,  playing  long  and 
low.  Oh,  music,  how  he  loved  it !  It  seemed  to  set  every- 
thing straight  all  at  once  in  his  head.  With  bow  in  hand  and 
violin  at  rest,  he  surpassed  himself  that  evening  in  ingenuity 
of  fingering.  He  trembled  to  think  of  his  own  cleverness  and 
skill.  What  a  miracle  of  device  !  What  a  triumph  of  cun- 
ning !  Not  an  element  was  overlooked.  It  was  safe  as  houses. 
He  could  go  to  bed  now,  and  drop  off  like  a  child,  having 
anranged  before  he  went  to  make  Guy  Waring  his  cat's-paw. 


If 

1 

1 

' 

!S  i 

( 

•-f        *^ 

. ' 

)-1 


104 


WHAT  S    nkl.I)    IN    THK    BONE. 


and  tnrn  this  sad  stroke  of  ill-luck,  in  the  end,  to  his  own  ulti- 
mate greater  and  wider  advantage. 

And  he  was  quite  right,  too.  He  did  sleep  as  he  expected. 
Next  morning  he  woke  in  a  very  good  humor,  and  proceeded 
at  once  to  Guy  Waring's  rooms  the  moment  iftcr  breakfast. 

He  found  Ouy,  as  he  expected,  in  a  tumult  of  excitement, 
having  only  just  that  moment  received  by  post  the  final  call 
for  the  Rio  Negro  capital. 

When  other  men  are  excited  the  wise  man  takes  care  to  be 
perfectly  calm.  Montague  Nevitt  was  calm  under  this  crush- 
ing blow.  He  pointed  out  blandly  that  everything  would  yet 
go  well.  All  was  not  lost.  They  had  other  irons  in  the  fire. 
And  even  the  Rio  Negros  themselves  were  not  an  absolute 
failure.  The  diamonds,  the  diamonds  themselves,  he  insisted, 
were  still  there,  and  the  sapphires  also.  They  studded  the 
soil;  they  were  to  be  had  for  the  picking.  Every  bit  of  their 
money  would  come  back  to  them  in  the  end.  It  was  a  ques- 
tion of  meeting  an  immediate  emergency  only. 

"  But  I  haven't  three  thousand  pounds  in  the  world  to  meet 
it  with,"  Guy  exclaimed,  in  despair.  "I  shall  be  ruined,  of 
course.  I  don't  mind  about  that;  but  I  never  shall  be  able 
to  make  good  my  liabilities." 

Nevitt  lighted  a  cigarette  with  a  philosophical  smile.  The 
hotter  Guy  waxed,  the  faster  did  he  cool  down. 

"  Neither  have  I,  my  dear  boy,"  he  said,  in  his  most  careless 
voice,  puffing  out  rings  of  smoke  in  the  interval  between  his 
clauses;  "but  I  don't,  therefore,  go  mad.  I  don't  tear  my  hair 
over  it,  thou^jh,  to  be  sure,  I'm  a  deal  worse  off  than  you. 
My  position's  at  stake.  If  Drummond  were  to  hear  of  it  — 
sack  — sack  instanter.  As  to  making  yourself  responsible  for 
what  you  don't  possess,  that's  simply  speculation.  Everybody 
on  the  Stock  Exchange  always  does  it.  If  they  didn't  there'd 
be  no  such  thing  as  enterprise  at  all.  You  can't  make  a 
fortune  by  risking  a  ha'penny." 

"But  what  am  I  to  do.?"  Guy  cried,  wildly.  "However am 
I  to  raise  three  thousand  pounds  ?  I  should  be  ashamed  to 
let  Cyril  know  I'd  defaulted  like  this.  If  I  can't  find  the 
money  I  shall  go  mad  or  kill  myself." 

Montague  Nevitt  played  him  gently,  as  an  experienced 
angler  plays  a  plunging  trout,  before  proceeding  to  land  him. 
At  last,  after  offering  Guy  much  sympathetic  advice,  and  sug- 
gesting several  intentionally  feeble  schemes,  only  to  quash 


I 


WHA  I    S    IIKKI)    IN     THK    IIONK 


105 


The 


them  instantly,  he  observed,  with  a  certain  apologetic  air  of 
unobtrusive  friendliness,  "  Well,  if  tlie  worst  comes  to  the 
worst,  you  have  one  thing  to  fall  back  upon.  There's  that  six 
thousand,  of  course,  coming  in  by  and  by  from  the  unknown 
benefactor." 

Ouy  flung  himself  down  in  his  easy-chair  with  a  look  of 
utter  despondency  upon  his  handsome  face.  "  Jjut  I  promised 
Cyril,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  groan,  "  I'd  never  touch  that. 
If  I  were  to  spend  it,  I  don't  know  how  1  could  ever  face 
Cyril." 

"1  was  told  yesterday,"  Nevitt  answered,  with  a  bitter  little 
smile,  "and  by  a  lady,  too,  many  times  over,  that  circumstances 
alter  cases,  till  I  began  to  believe  it.  When  you  promised 
Cyril,  you  weren't  face  to  lace  with  a  financial  crisis.  If  you 
were  to  use  the  money  temporarily — mind,  I  say  only  tempo- 
rarily, for  to  my  certain  knowledge  Rio  Negros  will 
pull  through  all  right  in  the  end — if  you  were  to  use  it  tempo- 
rartly  in  such  an  emergency  as  this,  no  blame  of  any  sort  could 
possibly  attach  to  you.  The  unknown  benefactor  won't  mind 
whether  your  money's  at  your  banker's,  or  employed  for  the 
time  being  in  paying  your  debts.  Your  creditors  will.  If  I 
were  you,  therefore,  I'd  use  it  up  in  paying  them." 

"You  would  ?"  Guy  inquired,  glancing  Jicross  at  him  with 
a  faint  gleam  of  hope  in  his  eye. 

Nevitt  fixed  him  at  once  with  his  strange,  cold  stare.  He 
had  caught  his  man  now.  He  could  play  upon  him  as  readily 
as  he  could  play  his  violin. 

"Why,  certainly  I  would,"  he  answered,  with  confidence, 
striking  the  new  chord  full.  ''Cyril  himself  would  do  the 
same  in  your  place,  I'll  bet  you.  And  the  proof  that  he  would 
is  simply  this — you  yourself  will  do  it.  Depend  upon  it,  if 
you  can  do  anything  under  given  circumstances,  Cyril  would 
do  it,  too,  in  the  same  set  of  conditions.  And  if  ever  Cyril 
feels  inclined  to  criticise  what  you've  done,  you  can  answer 
him  back,  'I  know  your  heart  as  you  know  mine.  In  my 
place,  I  know  you'd  have  acted  as  I  did.'" 

"  Cyril  and  I  are  not  absolutely  identical,"  Guy  answered, 
slowly,  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  Montague  Nevitt's.  "  Sometimes 
I  feel  he  does  things  I  wouldn't  do." 

"  He  has  more  initiative  than  you,"  Nevitt  answered,  as  if 
carelessly,  though  with  deep  design  in  his  heart.  "  He  acts 
where  you  debate.    You're  often  afraid  to  take  a  serious  step; 


M 


10(1 


N\  M  A  I   ')    MKMt    IN     I  Ml'     llMNIt:. 


t'vnl  novtM'  lu'^ihUo»^      N'oimIkiw  l»iirk  (Uul  lullfi;  ('yiil  ^[i^.v^ 

^\\i\\)l\\\     al\tNUl  \\\\\     all     \\\V     IUl«H<    irMMull,    Jilt  i)|llill)i|v,   llhll 

rviil  »«I\omM  ;«itnul  llu'  ii>;lih\i'nM  ol  whiilrvn  v<»(i  dii;  lui 
It  \«Mi  (l«t  .invtluiH<  .mvlliin^  in  ihr  iiiitiiir  nl  i«  <)i>liiillr  Mli<|t, 
I  inr.^n,  NvliN,  1,11  lUvMo  iriulil),  llinii  woiiUI  I'yiil,  in  IlkiMUSi", 
havo  <Um»«»  ii  " 

"  \  OM  ilm»k  lir  li.m  lUtMc  inllliWlvr  i*"  (liiv  imkctl,  svilli  n 
Souirwiuil  nclllr.l  ail       Mr  li.ihtl  lo  Itc  llum^hl  IcM'Uinlivithial 

\\\A\\  i   Vlll 

"  Ot   rouiso  !n'  liiiM,  m\  (Umi  hoy,"  NoviU  im'twrird,  Miiiliiii; 
"  llt'M  \iso  \\\v  iwoiu^v  A\  «>nn\  willuMit  a  mMuiuI'M  luMilalinit  " 

"  Hilt  I  l\aV<M\'l  jjOl  t)u'  IllOtU'V  tt»  IIM«\"  llllV  t  tMllillllcd,  illhl 
a  vh^^lt    p,\\lsr 

"Tv  I  il  lias,  ihoih'.li,"  NrvitI  icNpoiulod,  willi  a  Mi^iiiliraiil  nod, 

(JiiV    |>vMU*<rd    Ins   bools,  and      ladr   no  iinnwdiatr  aiiswri, 
Novitt  wantrvl  nono  jusl    tluMi;   lie  waitnl  woinr  hccoiuIm,  Iniiii 
unn^    all    {\w    \\\\\\c   an    appiopiiati'   liiiu\      Tlicn  li»Maii|dil 
viux's  ovc  ay;ain,  and  tivrd  liiin  a  scrond  lime 

"It's  a  pny  wo  don't  know  i'vnl's  .iddirss  in  lltdniiim,"  lie 
saul.  n\  a  nuisinji  toiu\  "  \\\>  ini^ilit  tolr^^iapli  arross  lor  leave 
tv>  nse  Ins  n\vM\e\  nuMnwhile,  KiMneinbvM,  I'm  just  as  dee|>lv 
v\>nnMvnnis<Hl  as  von,  or  even  nio;t'  so.  It's  a  pily  we  slionid 
ho\\\  be  innunl,  with  si\  lli»>nsai\d  pounds  s;andiii>i  at  tins 
ViMV  iWvMWvnt  to  rviil's  aeeonnt  at  the  l.ondi  n  and  West 
V\Mintiy;  bnt  it  van't  be  helped,  There's  no  lime  to  lose. 
The  n\v>ney  must  be  paid,  in  sh.up  by  this  evening," 

**  Uy  this  eveninji  ! "  Toiy  exelaiined,  starling  up  eximdly. 
Novitt  i\ovKled  assent.  **  \es,  by  this  <'veninn,  oi  eoiiise," 
ho  answet't  vl.  nnpeituibed,  **  or  wc  bocoine  //.»v  /(jrA'delaiillors 
anvl  bankrupts." 

That  was  a  he,  to  bo  snre,  but  it  sorv*^'  his  purpose,  (liiy 
was  a  ehilvl  at  business,  anvl  iioiiovoil  whatever  nonsense  Nevill 
ehosc'  to  tvMst  upon  him. 

The  journaHst  V'->so  aiul  paoed  thoroou»  twieoor  thrieo,  with 
a  frantic  air  of  unsj  oakable  mi.sery. 

"  I  shall  U\so  my  plaee  at  mir  bank,  no  vloubt,"  Ni!vilt  went 
on,   in  a    rosi>ii\id   tone;     "but    that    doosi\'t    muih   matter, 
rhoujjh  a  temporary  loan  — I  could  pay  every  penny  in  si.v 


wet'ks  if   I'd  time — a  temporary  loan  would  set  things  all 
straight  again." 

"  r  wish  to  heaven  Cyril  was  here,"  Guy 
ous  ton«k 


woui 

exclaimed, 


in  pile- 


WIIAI  K   MKHI'   IN    I  UK   lUiNR. 


107 


"llr  Im,  pnu  t!(  nlly,  wIimi  ynw'if  hrrr,"  NW-viff  iifi«»wrrrrl, 
with  a  kiinwlii^  mrilh*.     "  Voii  nni  m  f  /m  hin  rl'pofy." 

"  Mow  (In  yon  utnmf"  (iiiy  nnkrd,  hifumj/  »oiirif|  iipori  liifri 
oprii  iiiniitlird 

Nrvill  )»mii«4«m|,  iiii'I  MMiih-fl  tiw»'»'f|y, 

'•  riiiH  m  liJM  «  Imw  !{  |Hiril<,  I  llijnk,"  lir  u\,\iri\,  in  thf  oMi/jiifj 
i«Moil,  |il(  kiii^/  il  )i))  find  loot<ni^(  iil  il,  Mr  \i,ii-  out  ;i  «  \ifiU, 
iin  i(  |MMiu(vrly  nnd  liy  in  <  nirni 

"'riiMt'n   n    (»M»  iinm    odd    llnn^,"  lir    w»(it    on,  "(li,it    yon 
nliovvrd  nn    (lir  ollnr  d<iy,  <lon'l   yon  know,  aljont  yonr  ';ij/fi;t 
liur  <ind  (!yid'M  lum^  n(»  id>«4olnt«ly  id«'n(ir;d." 

(Iny  Hiu.rd  /il  liini  in  horror.  "()}i,  don'f  J;dk  ;d»'<nf  »li;d!" 
In;  cried,  rnmdnj^  liJM  Inind  lliro(ij/li  liitiliiiir  "If  J  wfrc  rvi-n 
lo  cnlrrlHin  h(m  Ii  an  id»<i  lor  a  inonnni,  »ny  m:\f'rf'M[>«:t.i  would 
\)V  nonr  forevrr," 

"  I'ixarlly  MO,"  Nrvifl  |>nf  in,  wifit  a  nufirir;d  ^rnilr,  "  t  ti-'iid 
Ro  inv4l  in>w.  V(»irvr  no  milialivr.  Cyril  woiddn't  h^.  aff;iid, 
Knowinjj  tlu;  inlrrcHln  al  r.lake,  la/d  \nUr.  n  iuin  ^^;^nd  and  a^^ 
ollliand  on  liin  own  di^rrctnai." 

"Do-yon  lliink  y.nf"  (liiy  faltered,  in  a  hetiifaf in;/  vd'n,*'., 

Nevill  held  him  with  hiw  eye, 

"ho  I  think  Hf.f-"  he  erhoed;  "df>  I  thmk  i.f,f  i  know  (t, 
l,(M»k  here,  (iny,  yon  and  (!yrd  are.  |)ra':fieally  <aie.  If  ( .yn\ 
were;  here  we'd  ank  him  at.  onee,  to  lend  nn  the  ?noney.  If  we 
knew  where  (!yril  waw  w<!'d  telej/raph  aeroHw  and  i(vX  fiin  leave 
lik('  a  hird.  Mnt  an  he  isn't.  h<!re,  anrj  .m  we  don't,  know  wher<; 
In;  is,  we  isnist  hIiow  Home,  initiative;  we.  rnunf,  aef,  for  ohm:  on 
our  own  r(:H|)r)nsihility,  <;.xaet,ly  a'i  (Jyril  would.  It,'H  only  for 
six  weeks.  At  the  end  (;f  that  time  the  unknown  henefaetor 
Hlnni|)H  np  yonr  nhare.  Von  needn't  even  tell  Cyril,  if  you 
don't  like,  of  this  litth;  transadion.  See!  he.rc'ft  hin  ^he^.k. 
Von  fdl  it  in  and  Hi^^n  it.  Nf>l)r)dy  ean  tfdl  'he  ni^/nature  isn't 
Cyril's.  Vr)U  take  the  money  and  release  us  f>oth.  In  y'lx 
weeks*  time  yr>u  ^et  your  own  .share  of  thi,  unriatural  parent's 
bribe.  Vou  pay  it  in  to  his  credit,  and  not  a  livin;/  hou\  on 
earth  but  ourselves  need  ever  be  one  penny  the  wiser." 

(luy  tried  to  look  away,  but  hccr>u!dn't.  fie  couldn't.  .N'ev- 
itt  held  him  fixed  with  his  |)enetratin^  jjaze.  (*uy  moved 
uneasily.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  a  stift  neck,  so  hard  was 
it  to  turn.  Nevitt  took  a  pen  and  dipped  it  quick  in  the 
ink. 

**  Just  as  an  experiment/'  he  said,  firmly,  yet  in  a  coaxing 


108 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


voice,  "  sit  down  and  sign.  Let  me  see  what  it  looks  like. 
There.    Write  it  just  here.    Write  *  Cyril  Waring.' " 

Guy  sat  dowa  as  in  a  maze,  and  took  the  pen  from  his  hand 
like  an  obedient  school-boy.  For  a  second  the  pen  trembled 
in  his  vacillating  fingers;  then  he  wrote  on  the  check,  in  a 
free  and  flowing  hand,  where  the  sign^^ture  ought  to  be,  his 
brother's  name.     He  wrote  it  without  stopping. 

"Capital!  Capital!  "  Nevitt  cried,  in  delight,  looking  over 
his  shoulder.  "It's  a  splendid  fac-simile!  Now  date  and 
amount,  if  you  please.  Six  thousand  pounds.  It's  your  own 
natural  hand,  after  all.     Ah,  capital,  capital!  " 

As  he  spoke,  Guy  framed  the  fatal  words,  like  one  dreaming 
or  entrc^nced,  on  the  slip  of  paper  before  him:  "Pay  Self  or 
Bearer  Six  Thousand  Pounds  (^6000),  Cyril  Waring." 

Nevitt  looked  at  it  critically.  "That'll  do  all  right,"  he 
said,  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  in  between  whiles  on  Guy's  blood- 
less face.  "  Now  the  only  one  thing  you  have  still  left  to  do 
is  to  take  it  to  the  bank  and  get  it  cashed  instanter." 


CHAPTER  XX. 


MONTAGUE  NEVITT   FINESSES. 

Guy  rose  mechanically,  and  followed  him  to  the  door. 
Nevitt  still  held  the  forged  check  m  his  hand.  Guy  thought 
of  it  so  to  himself,  in  plain  terms,  as  the  forgery.  Yet  some- 
how, he  knew  not  why,  he  followed  that  sinister  figure  through 
the  passage  and  down  the  stairs  like  one  irresistibly  and  mag- 
netically drawn  forward.  Why,  he  couldn't  let  anyone  go 
forth  upon  the  streets  of  London  with  the  check  he  himself 
had  forged  in  his  hands,  unwatched  and  unshadowed. 

Nevitt  called  a  cab,  and  jumped  in  and  beckoned  him. 
Guy,  still  as  in  a  dream,  jumped  after  him  hastily. 

'•To  the  London  and  West  County  Bank,  in  Lombard 
Street,"  Nevitt  called  through  the  flap. 

The  cab  drove  off,  and  Guy  Waring  leaned  back,  all  trem- 
bling and  irresolute,  with  his  head  on  the  cushions. 

At  last,  after  a  short  drive,  during  which  Guy's  head  seemed 
to  be  swimming  most  dreamily,  they  reached  the  bank — that 
crowded  bank  in  Lombard  Street.  Nevitt  thrust  the  check 
bodily  into  his  companion's  hand. 


WHAT  S    BRED    IN    TIIK    HONK. 


lOi) 


him. 


"  Take  it  in  now,  and  cash  it,"  he  said,  with  an  authoritative 
air.     "  Do  you  hear  what  I  say?    Take  it  in — and  cash  it." 

Guy,  as  if  impelled  by  some  superior  power,  walked  inside 
the  door,  and  presented  it  timidly. 

The  cashier  glanced  at  the  sum  inscribed  on  the  check  with 
no  little  surprise. 

"  It's  a  rather  large  amount,  Mr.  Waring,"  he  said,  scanning 
hi*^  face  closely.     "  How  will  you  take  it? " 

Guy  trembled  violently  from  head  to  foot  as  he  answered, 
in  a  voice  half-choked  with  terror,  "  Bank  of  England  hun- 
dreds, if  you  please.  It  is  a  large  sum,  as  you  say,  but  I'm 
placing  it  elsewhere." 

The  cashier  retired  for  a  few  minutes;  then  he  returned 
once  more,  bringing  a  big  roll  of  notes,  and  a  second  clerk  by 
his  side  (just  to  prevent  mistake)  stared  hard  at  the  customer. 
"  All  square,"  the  second  clerk  said,  in  a  half-whispered  aside. 
"  It's  him  right  enough." 

And  the  cashier  proceeded  to  count  out  the  notes  with  oft- 
wetted  fingers. 

Guy  took  them  up  mechanically,  like  a  drunken  man, 
counted  them  over,  one  by  one,  in  a  strange,  dazed  way,  and 
staggered  out  at  last  to  the  cab  to  Nevitt. 

Nevitt  leaned  forward  and  took  the  bundle  from  his  hands. 
Guy  stood  on  the  pavement  and  looked  vacantly  in  at  him. 
"  That's  right,"  Nevitt  said,  clasping  the  bundle  tight.  "  Rio 
Negro  Diamond  and  Sapphire  Mines,  cabby,  127  Knatchbull 
Street,  Cheapside." 

The  cabman  whipped  up  his  horse  and  disappeared  round 
the  corner,  leaving  Guy  Waring  alone — like  a  fool — on  the 
pavement. 

For  a  minute  or  two  the  dazed  and  dazzled  journalist  stood 
there,  awaking  by  degrees,  as  from  some  trance  or  stupefac- 
tion. At  first  he  could  only  stand  still  and  gaze  vacantly 
down  the  street  after  the  disappearing  cab;  but  as  his  brain 
cleared  slowly,  and  the  mist  that  hung  over  his  mind  dispelled 
itself  bit  by  bit,  he  was  able  to  walk  a  few  steps  at  a  time 
toward  the  nearest  shops,  where  he  looked  in  at  the  windows 
intently,  with  a  hollow  stare,  and  tried  to  collect  his  scattered 
wits  for  a  great  effort  at  understanding  this  strange  transac- 
tion 

All  at  once,  as  he  looked,  the  full  folly  of  his  deed  burst,  in 
its  true  light,  upon  his  muddled  brain.    He  had  handed  Nevitt 


110 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


y' 


six  thousand  pounds  in  Bank  of  England  notes,  to  waste,  or 
lose,  or  speculate,  or  run  away  with. 

Six — thousand — pounds  of  Cyril's  money!  Not  that  for 
one  moment  he  suspected  Nevitt.  Guy  Waring  was  too  inno- 
cent to  suspect  anybody.  But  as  he  ^oke  up  more  fully  now 
to  the  nature  of  his  own  act,  a  horrible  sense  of  guilt  and 
pollution  crept  slowly  over  him.  He  put  his  hand  to  his 
forehead.  Cold  sweat  stcod  in  clammy,  small  drops  upon  iiis 
brow.  Bit  by  bit  the  hateful  truth  dawned  clearly  upon  him. 
Nevitt  had  lured  him  by  strange  means,  he  knew  not  how, 
into  hateful  crime — into  a  disgraceful  conspiracy.  Word  by 
word  the  self-accusing  sentence  framed  itself  upon  his  lips. 

He  spoke  it  out  aloud:     "Why — this — is  forgery!  " 

Dazzled  and  stunned  by  the  intensity  of  that  awful  awaking 
from  some  weird  possession  or  suggestion  of  evil  by  a  stronger 
mind,  Guy  W^aring  began  to  walk  on  in  a  feverish  fashion; 
fast,  fast,  oh,  so  fast,  not  knowing  where  he  went,  but  con- 
scious only  that  he  must  keep  moving,  lest  an  accusing 
conscience  should  gnaw  his  very  heart  out. 

Whither,  he  hadn't  as  yet  the  faintest  idea.  His  whole 
being,  for  the  moment,  was  centered  and  summed  up  in  that 
unspeakable  remorse.  He  had  done  a  great  wrong.  He  had 
made  himself  a  felon.  And  now,  in  the  first  recoil  of  his 
revolted  nature,  he  must  go  after  the  man  who  held  the  evi- 
dences of  his  guilt,  and  by  force  or  persuasion  demand  them 
at  once  from  him.  Those  notes  were  Cyril's.  He  must  get 
them.     He  must  get  them. 

Possessed  by  this  one  idea,  with  devouring  force,  but  still  in 
a  very  nebulous  and  hazy  form,  Guy  began  walking  toward 
the  Strand  and  the  Embankment,  at  the  hot  trp  of  his  speed, 
to  get  the  notes  back — at  Montague  Nevitt's  chambers.  He 
had  walked  with  fiery  zeal  in  that  wrong  direction  for  nearly 
a  mile,  his  heart  burning  within  him  all  the  way,  and  his  brain 
in  a  whirl,  before  it  began  to  strike  him,  in  a  flash  of  common- 
sense,  that  Montague  Nevitt  wouldn't  be  there  at  all.  He 
had  driven  off  to  the  office.  Guy  flapped  his  hand  to  his 
forehead  once  more,  in  an  agony  of  remorse.  Great  heavens, 
what  folly!  He  had  heard  him  tell  the  cabman  the  address 
himself — "127  Knatchbull  Street,  Cheapside." 

Even  now  he  hadn't  sense  enough  to  hail  a  cab  and  go  after 
him.  His  faculties  were  still  numbed  and  entranced  by  that 
horrible  spell  of   Montague  Nevitt's  eye.    He  had  but  one 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE    BONE. 


Ill 


thought — to  walk  on,  walk  hastily.  He  tramped  along  the 
streets  in  the  direction  of  Cheapside,  straining  every  muscle 
to  arrive  at  the  office  before  Nevitt  had  parted  with  Cyril's  six 
thousand;  but  he  never  even  thought  of  saving  the  precious 
moments  by  driving  the  distance  between  instead  of  walking 
it.  Montague  Nevitt's  personality  still  weighed  down  half  his 
brain,  and  rendered  his  mind  almost  childish  or  imbecile. 

Hurrying  on  so  through  the  crowded  streets,  now  walking, 
now  running,  now  pausing,  now  panting,  knocking  up  here 
against  a  little  knot  of  wayfarers,  and  delayed  again  there  by 
an  untimely  block  at  some  crowded  crossing,  he  turned  the 
corner  at  last,  with  a  beating  heart,  into  a  narrow  pavement 
of  an  alley  marked  up  as  Knatchbull  Street.  Number  127  was 
visible  from  afar. 

A  mcb  of  excited  people  marked  its  site  by  loitering  about 
the  door.  Two  policemen  held  off  the  angrier  spirits  among 
the  shareholders.  But,  nothing  daunted  by  the  press,  Guy 
forced  his  w  ly  in  and  looked  around  the  room,  trembling,  for 
Montague  Nevitt.  Too  late!  too  late!  Nevitt  wasn't  there. 
The  unhappy  dupe  turned  to  the  clerk  in  charge. 

"Has  Mr.  Montague  Nevitt  been  here?"  he  asked,  in  a 
voice  all  tremulous  with  emotion. 

"  Mr.  Montague  Nevitt? "  the  clerk  responded, 
ten   minutes   ago.     Came   to   settle 
brother-in-law's.     Went  off  in  a  cab. 
you?" 

"  He's  paid  in  six  thousand  pounds? "  Guy  gasped  out 
interrogatively. 

The  clerk  gazed  at  him  hy.d  with  a  suspicious  glance.  "  Are 
you  a  shareholder? "  he  asked,  with  one  eye  on  the  policeman. 
'*  What  do  you  want  to  know  for?" 

**  Yes,  I'm  a  shareholder,  unfortunately,"  Guy  answered,  still 
in  a  maze.  "  I  hold  three  hundred  original  shares.  My  name's 
Guy  Waring.  You've  got  me  on  your  books.  Mr.  Nevitt  has 
paid  three  thousand  in  Mr.  Whitley's  name,  and  three  thousand 
for  me;  that  was  our  arrangement." 

The  clerk  glanced  "uard  at  him  again.  "Waiing!"  he 
repeated,  turning  over  the  leaves  of  his  big  book  for  further 
veiification.  "Waring!  Waring!  Waring!  Ah,  here  it  is. 
'Waring,  Guy;  journalist;  22  Staple  Inn;  300  shares.'  Three 
hundred  pounds  paid.  Then  we  call  up  to  three  thousand. 
No,  Mr.  Nevitt  didn't  settle  for  you,  sir.    He  paid  Mr.  Whit- 


"  Just  gone 
Mr.   Whitley's  call— his 
Can  I  do  anything  for 


112 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


5    < 


-■S.      I, 


ley's  call  in  full.  That  was  all.  Nothing  else.  You're  still 
our  debtor." 

"He  didn't  pay  up! "  Guy  exclaimed,  clapping  his  hands  to 
his  head,  all  the  black  guile  and  treachery  of  the  man  coming 
home  to  him  at  once,  at  one  fell  blow.  "  He  didn't  pay  up  for 
me!    Oh,  this  is  too,  too  terrible!  " 

He  paused  for  a  moment.  Floods  of  feeling  rushed  over 
him.  He  knew  now  that  he  had  committed  that  forgery  for 
nothing.  Cyril's  money  was  gone;  and  Montague  Nevitt 
had  stolen  the  three  thousand  Guy  intrusted  to  him  at  the 
bank  for  the  second  payment.  Yet  Guy  knew  he  had  no  legal 
remedy  save  by  acknowledging  the  forgery.  This  was  almost 
more  than  human  nature  could  stand.  If  Montague  Nevitt 
had  been  by  his  side  that  moment  Guy  would  have  leapt  at  his 
throat,  and  it  would  have  gone  hard  with  him  if  he  had  left 
the  villain  living. 

He  clapped  his  hands  to  his  ears  in  the  horror  and  agony  of 
that  hideous  disclosure. 

"The  thief!  "  he  cried  aloud,  in  a  choking  voice.  "  Did  he 
pay  what  he  paid  from  a  big  roll  of  notes,  and  did  he  take  the 
rest  of  the  notes  in  the  roll  cway  with  him?  " 

"Yes,  just  so,"  the  clerk  answered,  calmly.  "He  didn't 
mention  your  name;  but  perhaps  he's  coming  back  by  and  by 
to  settle  for  you." 

Guy  knew  better.  He  saw  through  the  man's  whole  black 
nature  at  once. 

"  I've  been  robbed,"  he  said,  slowly.  "  I've  been  robbed 
and  deserted.  I  must  follow  the  man  and  compel  him  to  dis- 
gorge. When  I've  got  the  cash  back  I'll  return  and  pay  you. 
.  .  .  No,  I  won't,  though.  I  forgot.  I'll  take  it  home  to 
the  bank  for  Cyril." 

The  clerk  gazed  at  him  with  a  smile  of  pitying  conte:  ipt. 
Mad,  mad;  quite  mad!  The  loss  of  his  fortune  had  no  doubt 
unhinged  this  shareholder's  reason.  But  Guy,  never  heeding 
him,  rushed  out  into  the  street  and  hailed  a  passing  cab. 

"Temple  Flats,"  he  cried  aloud,  and  drove  to  Nevitt's 
chambers.  Too  late  once  more!  The  housekeeper  told  him 
Mr.  Nevitt  was  out.  He'd  just  started  off,  portmanteau  and 
all,  as  hard  as  a  hansom  could  drive,  to  Waterloo  station. 

"Waterloo,  then! "  Guy  shouted,  in  wild  despair,  to  the  cab- 
man. "We  must  follow  this  ma.i  post-haste.  Alive  or  dead, 
I  won't  rest  till  I  catch  him!  " 


WHAT'S    BRED    IN    THE    BONE. 


113 


It  was  an  unhappy  phrase.    In  the  events  that  came  after, 
it  was  remembered  against  him. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

COLONEL   KELMSCOTT'S  PUNISHMENT. 

While  Montague  Nevitt  was  thus  congenially  engaged  in 
pulling  off  his  treble  coup  of  settling  his  own  share  in  the  Rio 
Negro  deficit,  pocketing  three  thousand  pounds, /r^ /^w.,  for 
incidental  expenses,  and  getting  Guy  Waring  thoroughly  into 
his  power  by  his  knowledge  of  a  forgery,  two  other  events 
were  taking  place,  elsewhere,  which  were  destined  to  prove  of 
no  small  importance  to  the  future  of  the  twins  and  their 
immediate  surroundings.  'I'hings  generally  were  convergmg 
toward  a  crisis  in  their  affairs.  Colonel  Kelmscott's  wrong- 
doing was  bearing  first  fruit  abundantly. 

For  as  soon  as  Granville  Kelmscott  received  that  strangely 
worded  note  from  Gwendoline  Gildersleeve,  he  proceeded,  as 
was  natural,  straight  down,  in  his  doubt,  to  his  father's  library. 
There,  bursting  into  the  room,  with  Gwendoline's  letter  still 
crushed  in  his  hand  in  the  side  pocket  of  his  coat,  and  a  face 
like  thunder,  he  stood  in  the  attitude  of  avenging  fate  before 
his  father's  chair,  and  gazed  down  upon  him  angrily. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  he  asked,  in  a  low  but  fuming 
voice,  brandishing  the  note  before  his  eyes  as  he  spoke.  "  Is 
everyone  in  the  country  to  be  told  it  but  I?  Is  everybody 
else  to  hear  my  business  before  you  tell  me  a  word  of  it?  A 
letter  comes  to  me  this  morning — no  matter  from  whom — and 
here's  what  it  says:  'I  know  you're  not  the  eldest  son,  and 
that  somebody  else  is  the  heir  of  Tilgate.'  Surely,  if  anybody 
was  to  know,  /should  have  known  it  first.  Surely,  if  I'm  to 
be  turned  adrift  on  the  world  after  being  brought  up  to  think 
myself  a  man  of  means  so  long,  I  should,  at  least,  be  turned 
adrift  with  my  eyes  open." 

Colonel  Kelmscott  gazed  at  him  open-mouthed  with  horror. 

"  Did  Gwendoline  Gildersleeve  write  that  to  you? "  he  cried, 
overpowered  at  once  by  remorse  and  awe.  "  Did  Gwendoline 
Gildersleeve  write  that  to  vou?  Well,  if  Gwendoline  Gilder- 
sleeve knows  it,  it's  all  up  with  the  scheme!  That  rascally 
lawyer,  her  father,  has  found  out  everything.    These  two 


114 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


Iltl.r 


I'll  < 


'i    ii. 


4-  { 


1  ( 


;      I 


1' ;    <; 


young  men  must  he  /e  put  their  case  in  the  fellow's  hands. 
He  must  be  hunting  up  the  facts.  He  must  be  preparing  to 
contest  it.     My  boy,  my  boy!  we're  ruined,  we're  ruined!" 

"  These  two  young  men,"  Granville  repeated,  with  a  puzzled 
air  of  surprise.  "  IV/iativfo  young  men?  I  don't  know  them. 
I  never  heard  of  them."  Then  suddenly  one  of  those  flashes 
of  intuition  burst  in  upon  him  that  bursts  in  upon  us  all  at 
moments  of  critical  importance  to  our  lives.  "  Father,  father," 
he  cried,  leaning  forward  in  his  anguish,  and  clutching  the 
oak  chair,  "  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  those  fellows,  the  VVar- 
ings,  that  we  met  at  Chetwood  Court,  are  your  lawful  sons — 
and  that  t/ia/  was  why  you  bought  the  landscape  with  the 
snake  in  it?" 

Kelmscott  of  Tilp^ate  bent  his  proud  head  down  to  the  table 
unchecked.  "  My  son,  my  son!  "  he  cried,  in  his  despair,  "  you 
have  said  it  yourself.  Your  own  mouth  has  suggested  it. 
What  use  my  trying  to  keep  it  from  you  any  longer?  These 
lads — are  Kelmscotts." 

"And — my  mother? "  Granville  Kelmscott  burst  out,  in  a 
very  tremulous  voice.  The  question  was  almost  more  than  a 
man  dare  ask;  but  he  asked  it,  in  the  first  bitterness  of  a 
terrible  awakening. 

"Youi  mother,"  Colonel  Kelmscott  answered,  lifting  his 
head  once  more,  with  a  terrible  effort,  and  looking  his  son 
point-blank  in  the  face,  "your  mother  is  just  what  I  have 
always  called  her — my  lawful  wife — Lady  Emily  Kelmscott. 
The  mother  of  these  lads,  to  whom  I  was  also  once  duly  mar- 
ried, died  before  my  marriage  with  my  present  wife — thank 
God,  I  can  say  so!  I  may  have  acted  foolishly,  cruelly,  crim- 
inally; but  at  least  I  never  acted  quite  so  basely  and  so  ill  as 
you  impute  to  me,  Granville." 

"  Thank  heaven  for  that!  "  his  son  answered,  fervently,  with 
one  hand  on  his  breast,  drawing  a  deep  sigh  as  he  spoke. 
"  You're  my  father,  sir,  and  it  isn't  for  me  to  reproach  you, 
but  if  you  had  only  done  t/iaf — oh,  my  mother!  my  mother!  I 
don't  know,  sir,  I'm  sure,  how  I  could  ever  have  forgiven  you; 
I  don't  know  how  I  could  ever  have  kept  my  hands  off  you." 

Colonel  Kelmscott  straightened  himself  up,  and  looked  hard 
at  his  son.  A  terrible  pathos  gleamed  in  his  proud  brown 
eyes.     His  white  mustache  had  more  dignity  than  ever. 

"  Granville,"  he  said,  slowly,  like  a  broken  man,  "  I  don't  ask 
you  to  forgive  me — you  can  never  forgive  me;  I  don't  ask  yon 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


115 


hands, 
ring  to 
jd!" 
puzzled 
w  them. 
;  flashes 
s  all  at 
father," 
ling  the 
he  VVar- 
1  sons — 
with  the 

the  table 
lir,  '*  you 
ested  it. 
>    These 

3ut,  in  a 
:e  than  a 
less  of  a 

fting  his 
r  his  son 
I  have 
elmscott. 
luly  mar- 
e — thank 
ly,  crim- 
so  ill  as 


ntly,  with 
spoke. 
)ach  you, 
nother!  I 
ivenyou; 
off  you." 
Dked  hard 
id  brown 
irer. 

don't  ask 
t  ask  yott 


to  sympathize  with  me — a  father  knows  better  than  to  accept 
sympathy  from  a  son;  but  I  do  ask  you  to  bear  with  me  while 
I  try  to  explain  myself." 

He  braced  himself  up,  and  with  many  long  pauses,  and  many 
inarticulate  attempts  to  set  forth  the  facts  in  the  least  unfavor- 
able aspect,  told  his  story  all  through,  in  minute  detail,  to  that 
hardest  of  all  critics,  his  own  dispossessed  and  disinherited 
boy. 

"If  you're  hard  upon  me,  Granville,"  he  cried  at  last  as  he 
finished,  looking  wistfully  for  pity  into  his  son's  face,  "  you 
should  remember,  at  least,  it  was  for  }vi/r  sake  I  did  it,  my 
boy;  it  was  for  your  sake  I  did  it — yours,  yours,  and  your 
mother's." 

Granville  let  him  relate  his  whole  story  in  full  to  the  bitter 
end,  though  it  was  with  difficulty  at  timts  that  that  proud  and 
gray-haired  man  nerved  himself  up  to  tell  it.  Then,  as  soon  as 
all  was  told,  he  looked  in  his  father's  face  once  more,  and  said 
slowly,  with  the  pitilessness  of  sons  in  general  toward  the 
faults  and  failings  of  their  erring  parents: 

"It's  not  my  place  to  blame  you,  I  know.  You  did  it,  I 
suppose,  as  you  say  so,  for  me  and  my  mother.  But  it  is  my 
place  to  tell  you  plainly,  father,  that  I,  for  one,  will  have  noth- 
ing at  all  to  do  with  the  fruits  of  your  deception.  I  was  no 
party  to  the  fraud;  I  will  be  no  party  either  to  its  results  or 
its  clearing  up.  I,  too,  have  to  think,  as  you  say,  of  my  mother. 
For  her  sake,  I  won't  urge  you  to  break  her  heart  at  once  by 
disinheriting  her  son,  now  and  here,  too  openly.  You  can 
make  what  arrangements  you  like  with  these  blood-sucking 
Warings.  You  can  do  as  you  will  in  providing  them  with 
hush-money.  Let  them  take  their  blackmail.  You've  handed 
them  over  half  the  sum  you  got  for  Dowlands  already,  I  sup- 
pose. You  can  buy  them  off  for  awhile  by  handing  them  over 
the  remainder.  Twelve  thousand  will  do.  Leeches  as  they 
are,  that  will  surely  content  them,  at  least  for  the  present." 

Colonel  Kelmscott  raised  one  hand  and  tried  hard  to  inter- 
rupt him;  but  Granville  would  not  be  interrupted. 

"  No,  no,"  he  went  on,  sternly,  shaking  his  head  and  frowning. 
"  I'll  have  my  say  for  once,  and  then  forever  keep  silence. 
This  is  the  first  and  last  time  as  long  as  we  both  live  I  will 
speak  with  you  on  the  subject;  so  we  may  as  well  understand 
one  another,  once  and  forever.  For  my  mother's  sake,  as  I 
said,  there  need  be  just  at  present  no  open  disclosure.    You 


116 


WHATS   BRED    IN    THE    BONE. 


!  B 


have  yearg  to  live  yet;  and  as  long  as  you  live,  these  Waring 
people  have  no  claim  upon  the  estate  in  any  way.  You've 
given  them  as  much  as  they've  any  right  to  expect.  Let  them 
wait  for  the  rest  till,  in  the  course  of  nature,  they  come  into 
possession.  As  for  me,  I  will  go  to  carve  out  for  myself  a 
place  in  the  world  elsewhere  by  my  own  exertions.  Perhaps 
before  my  mother  need  know  her  son  was  left  a  beggar  by  the 
father  who  brought  him  up  like  the  heir  to  a  large  estate,  I 
may  have  been  able  to  carve  out  that  place  for  m.yself  so  well 
that  she  need  never  really  feel  the  diiference.  I'm.  a  Kelmscott, 
and  can  fight  the  world  on  my  own  account.  But,  in  any  case, 
I  must  go.  Tilgate's  no  longer  a  fit  home  for  me.  I  leave  it 
to  those  who  have  a  better  right  to  it." 

He  rose  as  if  to  depart,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  sets  forth 
upon  the  world  to  seek  his  fortune.  Colonel  Kelmscott  rose 
too,  and  faced  him,  all  broken. 

"  Granville,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  scarcely  audible  through  the 
stifled  sobs  he  was  too  proud  to  give  vent  to,  "you're  not 
going  like  this!  You're  not  going  without  at  least  shaking 
hands  with  your  father!  You're  not  going  without  saying 
good-bye  to  your  mother!  " 

Granville  turned,  with  hot  tears  standing  dim  in  his 
eyes — like  his  father  he  was  too  proud  to  let  them  trickle 
down  his  cheek — and  taking  the  Colonel's  weather-beaten 
hand  in  his,  wrung  it  silently  for  some  minutes  with  profound 
emotion. 

Then  he  looked  at  the  white  mustache,  the  grizzled  hair, 
the  bright  brown  eyes  suffused  with  answering  dimness,  and 
said,  almost  remorsefully,  "  Father,  good-bye.  You  meant  me 
well,  no  doubt.  You  thought  you  were  befriending  me.  But 
I  wish  to  heaven  in  my  soul  you  had  meant  me  worse.  It 
would  have  been  easier  for  me  to  bear  in  the  end.  If  you'd 
brought  me  up  as  a  nobody —  as  a  younger  son's  accustomed 
— "  He  paused  and  drew  back,  for  he  could  see  his  words  were 
too  cruel  for  that  proud  man's  heart.  Then  he  broke  off  sud- 
denly. 

"But  I  can't  say  good-bye  to  my  mother,"  he  went  on, 
with  a  piteous  look.  "  If  I  tried  to  say  good-bye  to  her,  I 
must  tell  her  all.  I'd  break  down  in  the  attempt.  I'll  write  to 
her  from  the  Cape.  It'll  be  easier  so.  She  won't  feel  it  so 
much  then." 

**From  the  Cape! "  Colonel  Kelmscott  exclaimed,  drawing 


'*' 


what's   1!KE1)    m    THE   HONE. 


117 


Waring 
You've 
.et  them 
me  into 
myself  a 
Perhaps 
,r  by  the 
estate,  I 
f  so  well 
ilmscott, 
iny  case, 
[  leave  it 

ets  forth 
;ott  rose 

3ugh  the 

lu're  not 

shaking 

t  saying 

1  in  his 
n  trickle 
;r-beaten 
jrofound 

ed  hair, 
less,  and 
leant  me 
ne.  13ut 
orse.  It 
If  yon'd 
ustomed 
)rds  were 
;  off  sud- 

went  on, 

to  her,  I 

1  write  to 

feel  it  so 

drawing 


back  in  horror.  "  Oh,  Granville,  don't  tell  me  you're  going 
away  from  us  to  Africa!  " 

"  Where  else?  "his  son  asked,  looking  him  back  in  the  face 
steadily.  "Africa  it  is!  That's  the  only  opening  left  nowa- 
days for  a  man  of  spirit.  There  I  may  be  able  to  hew  out  a 
place  for  myself,  at  last,  worthy  of  Lady  Emily  Kelmscott's 
son.  I  won't  come  back  till  I  come  back  able  to  hold  my  own 
in  the  world  with  the  best  of  them.  These  Warings  sha'n't 
crow  over  the  younger  son.  Good-bye  once  more,  father."  He 
wrung  his  hand  hard.  "  Think  kindly  of  me  when  I'm  gone; 
and  don't  forget  altogether  I  once  loved  Tilgate." 

He  opened  the  door  and  went  up  to  his  own  room  again. 
His  mind  was  resolved.  He  wouldn't  even  say  good-bye  to 
Gwendoline  Gildersleeve.  He'd  pack  a  few  belongings  in  a 
portmanteau  in  haste,  and  go  forth  upon  the  world  to  seek 
his  fortune  in  the  South  African  diamond-fields. 

But  Colonel  Kelmscott  sat  still  in  the  library,  bowed  down 
in  his  chair,  with  his  head  between  his  hands,  in  abject  misery. 
A  strange  feeling  seemed  to  throb  through  his  weary  brain; 
he  had  a  sensation  as  though  his  skull  were  opening  and  shut- 
ting. Great  veins  on  his  forehead  beat  black  and  swollen. 
The  pressure  was  almost  more  than  the  vess>°Js  could  stand. 
He  held  his  temples  between  his  two  palms  as  if  to  keep  them 
from  bursting.  All  ahead  looked  dark  as  night;  the  ground 
was  cut  from  under  him.  The  punishment  of  his  sin  was  too 
heavy  for  him  to  bear.  How  could  he  ever  tell  Emily  now 
that  Granville  was  gone  ?  A  horrible  numbness  oppressed 
his  brain.     Oh,  mercy  !  mercy  !  his  head  was  flooded. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

CROSS   PURPOSES. 

At  the  Gildersleeves,  too,  the  house  that  day  was  alive  with 
excitement. 

Gwendoline  had  thrown  herself  into  a  fever  of  alarm  as 
soon  as  she  had  posted  her  letter  to  Granville  Kelmscott. 
She  went  up  to  her  own  room,  flung  herself  wildly  on  the  bed, 
and  sobbed  herself  into  a  half-hysterical,  half-delirious  state, 
long  before  dinner-time.    She  hardly  knew  herself,  at  first,  how 


iif 


118 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


I 


.? 


really  ill  she  was.  Her  hands  were  hot  and  her  forehead 
burning.  But  she  disregarded  such  mere  physical  and  mental 
details  .is  those  by  the  side  of  a  heart  too  full  for  utterance. 
She  thought  only  of  Granville,  and  of  that  horrid  man  who 
had  threatened,  with  such  evident  spite  and  rancor,  to  ruin 
him. 

She  lay  there  some  hours  alone,  in  a  high  fever,  before  her 
mother  came  up  to  her  room  to  fetch  her.  Mrs.  Gildersleeve 
was  a  subdued  and  soft-voiced  woman,  utterly  crushed,  so 
people  said,  by  the  stronger  individuality  of  that  blustering, 
domineering,  headstrong  man,  her  husband.  And  to  say  the 
truth,  the  eminent  Q.  C.  had  taken  all  the  will  out  of  her  in 
twenty-three  years  of  obedient  slavery.  She  was  pretty  still, 
to  be  sure,  in  a  certain  faded,  jaded,  unassuming  way;  but  her 
patient  face  wore  a  constant  expression  of  suppressed  terror, 
as  if  she  expected  every  moment  to  be  the  victim  of  some 
terrible  and  unexplained  exposure.  And  that  feature,  at  least, 
in  her  idiosyncrasy,  could  hardly  be  put  down  to  Gilbert  Gil- 
dersleeve's  account;  for,  hectormg  and  strong-minded  aK  the 
successful  Q.  C.  was  known  to  be,  nobody  could  for  a  moment 
accuse  him  in  any  definite  way  of  deliberate  unkindness  to  his 
wife  or  daughter.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  tender  and  indul- 
gent to  them  to  the  last  degree,  as  he  understood  those  virt- 
ues. It  was  only  by  constant  assertion  of  his  own  individu- 
ality, and  constant  repression  or  disregard  of  theirs,  that  he  had 
broken  his  wife's  spirit  and  was  breaking  his  daughter's.  He 
treated  them  as  considerately  as  one  treats  a  pet  dog,  doing 
everything  for  them  that  care  and  money  could  effect,  except 
to  admit  for  a  moment  their  claim  to  independent  opinions 
and  actions  of  their  own,  or  to  allow  the  possibility  of  their 
thinking  and  feeling  on  any  subject  on  earth  one  nail's-breadth 
otherwise  than  as  he  himself  did. 

At  sight  of  Gwendoline,  Mrs.  Gildersleeve  came  over  to  the 
bed  with  a  scared  and  startled  air,  felt  her  daughter's  face 
tenderly  with  her  hands  for  a  moment,  and  then  cried  in 
alarm,  "Why,  Gwennie,  what's  this?  Your  cheeks  are  burn- 
ing. Who  on  earth  has  been  here  ?  Has  that  horrid  man 
come  down  again  from  London  to  worry  you  ?" 

Gwendoline  looked  up  and  tried  to  prevaricate;  but  con- 
science was  too  strong  for  her — the  truth  would  out  for  all 
that.  "  Yes,  mother,"  she  cried,  after  a  pause;  **  and  he  said, 
oh,  he  said — I  could  never  tell  you  what  dreadful  things  he 


WHAT  S   BRED    IN    THE    DONE. 


119 


•  to  the 
s  face 
ried  in 
burn- 
id  man 


said.  But  he's  so  wicked,  so  cruel !  You  never  knew  such  a 
man  !  He  thinks  I  want  to  marry  Granville  Kelmscott,  and 
so  he  told  me  " — sl>e  broke  off,  of  a  sudden,  unable  to  pro- 
ceed, and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  sobbing  long  and 
bitterly. 

"Well,  what  did  he  tell  you,  dear?"  Mrs.  Gildersleeve 
asked,  with  that  frightened  air,  as  of  a  startled  wild  thing, 
growing  deeper  than  ever  upon  her  countenance  as  she  uttered 
the  question. 

"  He  told  me — oh,  he  told  me — I  can't  tell  you  what  he 
told  me ;  but  he  threatened  to  ruin  us — he  threatened  it  so 
dreadfully.  It  was  a  hateful  threat.  He  seemed  to  have  found 
out  something  that  he  knew  would  be  our  ruin.  He  frightened 
me  to  death.     I  never  heard  anyone  say  such  things  as  he  did." 

Mrs.  Gildersleeve  drew  back  in  profound  agitation.  "Found 
out  something  that  would  be  our  ruin  !"  she  cried,  with  white 
face  all  aghast.  "Oh,  Gwennie,  what  do  you  mean  ?  Didn't 
he  tell  you  what  it  was  ?  Didn't  he  try  to  explain  to  you  ? 
He's  a  wicked,  wicked  man — so  cruel,  so  unscrupulous.  He 
gets  one's  secrets  into  his  hands  by  underhand  means,  and 
then  uses  them  to  make  one  do  whatever  he  chooses.  I  see 
how  it  is.  He  wants  to  force  us  into  letting  him  marry  you — 
into  making  you  marry  him  !  Oh,  Gwennie,  this  is  hard  ! 
Didn't  he  tell  you  at  all  what  it  was  he  knew  ?  Didn't  he  give 
you  a  hint  what  sort  of  secret  he  was  driving  at  ?" 

Gwendoline  looked  up  once  more,  and  murmured  low 
through  her  sobs,  "  No,  he  didn't  say  what  it  was — he's  too 
cunning  for  that;  but  I  think — I  think  it  was  something 
about  Granville.  Mother,  I  never  told  you,  but  you  know  I 
love  him  !  I  think  it  was  something  about  him,  though  I  can't 
quite  make  sure.  Some  secret  about  somebody  not  being 
properly  married,  or  something  of  that  sort.  I  didn't  quite 
understand.    You  see  he  was  so  discreetly  vague  and  reticent." 

Mrs.  Gildersleeve  drew  back,  her  face  all  aghast  with  hor- 
ror." "Some  secret — about  somebody — not  being  properly 
married !  "  she  repeated,  slowly,  with  wild  terror  in  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  mother,"  Gwendoline  gasped  out,  with  an  effort,  once 
more,  "  it  was  about  somebody  not  being  really  the  proper 
heir;  he  made  me  promise  I  wouldn't  tell,  but  I  don't  know 
how  to  keep  it.  He  was  immensely  full  of  it.  It  was  an  awful 
secret;  and  he  said  he  would  ruin  us — ruin  us  ruthlessly.  He 
said  we  were  in  his  pow^r,  and  he'd  crush  us  under  his  heel. 


120 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN   THE    BONE. 


H  \ 


\  !: 


■'i! 


And  oh,  when  he  said  it,  you  should  have  seen  his  face !  It 
was  horrible,  horrible  !  I've  seen  nothing  else  since.  It  dogs 
me — it  haunts  me  !  " 

Mrs.  Gildersleeve  sat  down  by  the  bedside,  wringing  her 
hands  in  silence.  "It's  too  late  to-night."  she  said  at  last, 
after  a  long,  deep  pause,  and  in  a  voice  like  a  woman  con- 
demned to  death,  "  too  late  to  do  anything ;  but  to-morrow 
your  father  must  go  up  to  town  and  try  to  see  him.  At  all 
costs,  we  must  buy  him  off.  He  knows  everything — that's 
clear.     He'll  ruin  us  !     He'll  ruin  us  !" 

"  It's  no  use  papa  going  up  to  town,  though,"  Gwendoline 
answered,  half-dreamily;  "that  dreadful  man  said  he  was 
going  away  for  his  holiday  to  the  country  at  once.  He'll  be 
gone  to-morrow." 

"Gone!  Gone  where?"  Mrs.  Gildersleeve  cried,  in  the 
same  awe-struck  voice. 

"To  Devonshire,"  Gwendoline  replied,  shutting  her  eyes 
hard  and  still  seeing  him. 

Mrs.  Gildersleeve  echoed  the  phrase  in  a  startled  cry.  "  To 
Devonshire,  Gwendoline  !  To  Devonshire  !  Did  he  say  to 
Devonshire?" 

"  Yes,"  Gwendoline  went  on,  slowly,  trying  to  recall  his  very 
words;  "to  the  skirts  of  Dartmoor,  I  think  he  said — to  a 
place  in  the  wilds  by  the  name  of  Mamburv." 

"  Mambury  !" 

The  terror  and  horror  that  frail  and  faded  woman  threw  into 
the  one  word  fairly  startled  Gwendoline.  She  opened  her  eyes 
and  stared  aghast  at  her  mother;  and  well  she  might,  for  the 
effect  was  electrical.  Mrs.  Gildersleeve  was  sitting  there, 
transfixed  with  awe  and  some  unspeakable  alarm  ;  her  figure 
was  rigid;  her  face  was  dead- white;  her  mouth  was  drawn 
down  with  a  convulsive  twitch;  she  clasped  her  bloodless 
hands  on  her  knees  in  mute  agony.  For  a  moment  she  sat 
there  like  a  statue  of  flesh.  Then,  as  sense  and  feeling  came 
back  to  her  by  slow  degrees,  she  could  but  rock  her  body  up 
and  down  in  her  chair  with  a  short,  swaying  motion,  and  mutter 
over  and  over  again  to  herself,  in  that  same  appalled  and  terri- 
fied voice,  "  Mambury — Mambury — Mambury — Mambury." 

"That  was  the  name,  I'm  sure,"  Gwendoline  went  on,  almost 
equally  alarmed.  "On  a  hunt  after  records,  he  said;  on  a 
hunt  after  records.  Whatever  it  was  he  wanted  to  prove,  I 
suppose  he  knew  that  was  the  place  to  prove  it." 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE   iJOME, 


1)31 


Mrs.  Gildersleeve  rose,  or,  to  speak  with  more  truth,  stag- 
gered, slowly  to  her  feet,  and  steadying  herself  with  an  effort, 
made  blindly  for  the  door,  groping  her  way  as  she  went,  like 
some  faint  and  wounded  creature.  She  said  not  a  word  to 
Gwendoline.  She  had  no  tongue  left  for  speech  or  comment. 
She  merely  stepped  on,  pale  and  white,  like  one  who  walks  in 
her  sleep,  and  clutched  the  door-handle  hard  to  keep  her 
from  falling.  Gwendoline,  now  thoroughly  alarmed,  followed 
her  close  on  her  way  to  the  top  of  the  stairs.  There  Mrs. 
Gildersleeve  paused,  turned  round  to  her  daughter  with  a 
mute  look  of  anguish,  and  held  up  one  hand,  palm  outward, 
appealingly,  as  if  on  purpose  to  forbid  her  from  following 
farther.  At  the  gesture,  Gwendoline  fell  back,  and  looked 
after  her  mother  with  straining  eyes.  Mrs.  GildCiSleeve 
staggered  on,  erect,  yet  to  all  appearance  almost  incapable  of 
motion,  and  stumbled  down  the  stairs,  and  across  the  hall,  and 
into  the  drawing-room  opposite.  The  rest  Gwendoline  neither 
saw,  nor  heard,  nor  guessed  at.  She  crept  back  into  her  own 
room,  and  flinging  herself  on  her  bed  alone  as  she  stood,  cried 
still  more  piteously  and  miserably  than  ever. 

Down  in  the  drawing-room,  however,  Mrs.  Gildersleeve 
found  the  famous  Q.  C.  absorbed  in  the  perusal  of  that  day's 
paper.  She  came  across  toward  him,  pale  as  a  ghost,  and 
with  ashen  lips.  "Gilbert,"  she  said,  slowly,  blurting  it  all 
out  in  her  horror,  without  one  word  of  warning,  "that  dread- 
ful man,  Nevitt,  has  seen  Gwennie  again,  and  he's  told  her 
he  knows  all,  and  he  means  to  ruin  us,  and  he's  heard  of  the 
marriage,  and  he's  gone  down  to  Mambury  to  hunt  up  the 
records ! " 

The  eminent  Q.  C.  let  the  paper  drop  from  his  huge  red 
hands  in  the  intensity  of  his  surprise,  while  his  jaw  fell  in 
unison  at  so  startling  and  almost  incredible  a  piece  of  intelli- 
gence. "Nevitt  knows  all !  "  he  exclaimed,  half-incredulous. 
"He  means  to  ruin  us!  And  he  told  this  to  Gwendoline! 
Gone  down  to  Mambury !  Oh,  no, Minnie;  impossible!  You 
must  have  made  some  mistake.  What  did  she  say  exactly  ? 
Did  she  mention  Mambury  ?" 

"She  said  it  exactly  as  I've  said  it  now  to  you,"  Mrs.  Gil- 
dersleeve persisted,  with  a  stony  stare.  "  He's  gone  down  to 
Devonshire,  she  said,  to  the  borders  of  Dartmoor,  on  a  hunt 
after  the  records;  to  a  place  In  the  wilds  by  the  name  of  Mam- 
bury.    Those  were  her  very  words.    I  could  stake  my  life  on 


-.iim,'4n->isstmitiakmm 


122 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN    THE    BONE. 


each  syllable.  I  give  them  to  you  precisely  as  she  gave  them 
to  me." 

Mr.  Gildersleeve  gazed  across  at  her  with  the  countenance 
which  had  made  so  many  a  nervous  witness  quake  at  the  Old 
Bailey.  "Are  you  quite  sure  of  that,  Minnie  ? "  he  asked,  in 
his  best  cross-examining  tone.  "Quite  sure  she  said  Mam- 
bury,  all  of  her  own  accord  ?  Quite  sure  you  didn't  suggest 
it  to  her,  or  supply  the  name,  or  give  her  a  hint  of  its  where- 
abouts, or  put  her  a  leading  question  ?" 

"  Is  it  likely  I'd  suggest  it  to  her  ? "  the  meekest  of  women 
answered,  aroused  to  retort  for  once,  and  with  her  face  like  a 
sheet,  "Is  it  likely  I'd  tell  her?  Is  it  likely  I'a  give  my 
own  girl  the  clew  ?  She  said  it  all  of  herself,  I  tell  you,  with- 
out one  word  of  prompting.  She  said  it  just  as  I  repeated  it — 
to  a  place  in  the  wilds  by  the  name  of  Mambury." 

Gilbert  Gildersleeve  whistled  inaudibly  to  himself,  'Twas 
his  way  when  he  felt  himself  utterly  nonplussed.  This  was 
very  strange  news.  He  didn't  really  understand  it.  But  he 
rose  and  confronted  his  wife  anxiously.  That  overbearing,  big 
man  was  evidently  stirred  by  this  untoward  event  to  the  very 
depths  of  his  nature. 

"  Then  Gwennie  knows  all ! "  be  cried,  the  blood  rushing 
purple  into  his  ruddy,  flushed  cheeks.  "The  wretch'  The 
brute  !     He  must  have  told  her  everything." 

"Oh,  Gilbert,"  his  wife  answered,  sinking  into  a  chair  in 
her  horror;  even  he  couldn't  do  that  —  not  my  own  verj 
daughter !  And  he  didn't  do  it,  I'm  sure ;  he  didn't  dare. 
Coward  as  he  is,  he  couldn't  be  quite  so  cowardly.  She 
doesn't  guess  what  it  means.  She  thinks  it's  something,  I 
believe,  about  Granville  Kelmscott.  She's  in  love  with  young 
Kelmscott,  as  I  told  you  long  ago,  and  everything,  to  her  mind, 
takes  some  color  from  that  fancy.  I  don't  think  it  ever 
occurred  to  her,  from  what  she  says,  this  has  anything  at  all 
to  do  with  you  or  me,  Gilbert." 

The  Q.  C.  reflected.  He  saw  at  once  he  was  in  a  tight  cor- 
ner. That  boisterous  man,  with  the  burly  big  hands,  looked 
quite  subdued  and  crestfallen  now.  He  could  hardly  have 
snubbed  the  most  unassuming  junior.  This  was  a  terrible 
thing,  indeed,  for  a  man  so  unscrupulous  and  clever  as  Mon- 
tague Nevitt  to  have  wormed  out  of  the  registers.  How  he 
could  ever  have  wormed  it  out  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  hadn't 
the  faintest  idea.    Why,  who  on  earth  could  have  shown  him 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


123 


the  entry  of  that  fatal  marriage  —  Minnie's  first  marriage  —  the 
marriage  with  that  wretch  who  died  in  Portland  prison  —  the 
marrii^ge  that  was  celebrated  at  St.  Mary's,  at  Mambury  ?  He 
couldn't  for  a  moment  conceive,  for  nobody  but  themselves, 
he  fondly  imagined,  had  ever  identified  Mrs.  Gilbert  Gilder- 
sleeve,  the  wife  of  the  eminent  Q.  C,  with  that  unhappy  Mrs. 
Read,  the  convict's  widow.  The  convict's  widow  —  ah,  there 
was  the  rub  !  For  she  was  really  a  widow  in  name  alone  when 
Gilbert  Gildersleeve  married  her. 

And  Montague  Nevitt,  that  human  ferret,  with  his  keen, 
sharp  eyes,  and  his  sleek,  polite  ways,  had  found  it  all  out  in 
spite  of  them  —  had  hunted  up  the  date  of  Read's  death  and 
their  marriage,  and  had  bragged  how  he  was  going  down  to 
Mambury  to  prove  it ! 

All  the  Warings  and  Reads  always  got  married  at  Widdi- 
combe  or  Mambury.  There  were  lots  of  them,  on  the  books 
there;  that  was  one  comfort,  anyhow.  He'd  have  a  good 
search  to  find  his  needle  in  such  a  pottle  of  hay.  But  to 
think  the  fellow  should  have  had  the  double-dyed  cruelty  to 
break  the  shameful  secret  first  of  all  to  Gwendoline !  That 
was  his  vile  way  of  trying  to  force  a  poor  girl  into  an  unwill- 
ing consent.  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  lifted  his  burly  big  hands 
in  front  of  his  capacious  waistcoat,  and  pressed  them  together 
angrily.  If  only  he  had  that  rascal's  throat  well  between  them 
at  that  moment,  he'd  crush  the  fellow's  v/indpipe  till  he 
choked  him  on  the  spot,  though  he  answered  for  it  before  the 
judges  of  assize  to-morrow ! 

"There's  only  one  thing  possible  for  it,  Minnie,"  he  said  at 
last,  drawing  a  long,  deep  breath.  "  I  must  go  down  to  Mam- 
bury to-morrow  to  be  beforehand  with  him;  and  I  must 
either  buv  him  off  —  or  else,  if  that  won't  do — " 

"Or  else  what,  Gilbert?" 

She  trembled  like  an  aspen-leaf. 

"Or  else  get  at  the  books  in  the  vestry  myself,"  the  Q.  C. 
muttered  low  between  his  clenched  teeth,  "  before  the  fellow 
has  time  to  see  them  and  prove  it." 


lU 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


GUY    IN    LUCK. 


h    i| 


Vi 


Guy  Waring  reached  Waterloo  ten  minutes  too  late. 
Nevitt  had  gone  on  by  the  West  of  England  express.  The 
porter  at  the  labeling-place  "minded  the  gentleman  well." 
He  was  a  sharp-looking  gentleman,  with  a  queer  look  about 
the  eyes,  and  a  dark  mustache  curled  round  at  the  corners. 

"Yes,  yes,"  Guy  cried,  eagerly;  "that's  him  right  enough. 
The  eyes  mark  the  man.     And  where  was  he  going  to  ? " 

"  He  had  his  things  labeled,"  the  porter  said,  "  for 
Plymouth." 

"And  when  does  the  next  train  start  ? "  Guy  inquired,  all 
on  fire. 

The  porter,  consulting  the  time-table  in  the  muddle-headed 
way  peculiar  to  railway  porters,  and  stroking  his  chin  with  his 
hand  to  assist  cerebration,  announced,  after  a  severe  internal 
struggle,  that  the  3.45  down,  slow,  was  the  earliest  train 
available. 

There  was  nothing  for  it,  then,  Guy  perceived,  but  to  run 
home  to  his  rooms,  possessing  his  soul  in  patience,  pack  up  a 
few  things  in  his  Gladstone  bag,  and  return  at  his  leisure  to 
catch  the  down  train  thus  unfavorably  introduced  to  his  criti- 
cal notice. 

If  Guy  had  dared,  to  be  sure,  he  might  have  gone  straight 
to  a  police  station,  and  got  an  inspector  to  telegraph  along 
the  line  to  stop  the  thief  with  his  booty  at  Basingstoke  or 
Salisbury.  But  Guy  didn't  dare,  for  to  interfere  with 
Nevitt  now  by  legal  means  would  be  to  risk  the  discovery  of 
his  own  share  in  the  forgery,  and  from  that  risk  the  startled 
and  awakened  young  man  shrunk,  for  a  thousand  reasons, 
though  the  chief  among  them  all  was  certainly  one  that 
never  would  have  occurred  to  anyone  but  himself  as  even 
probable. 

He  didn't  wish  Elma  Clifford  to  know  that  the  man  she 
loved,  and  the  man  who  loved  her,  had  become  that  day  a 
forger's  brother. 

To  be  sure,  he  had  only  seen  Elma  once — that  afternoon  at 
the  Holkers*  garden  party;     but,  as  Cyril  himself  knew,  he 


WHAT  R   BRED   IN    THE    BONE. 


125 


had  fallen  in  love  with  her  at  first  sight — far  more  immedi- 
ately, indeed,  than  even  Cyril  himself  had  done.  Blood,  as 
us.ual,  was  thicker  '.han  water.  The  points  that  appealed  to 
one  brother  appealed  also  to  the  other,  but  with  this  charac- 
teristic difference,  that  Guy,  who  was  the  more  emotional  and 
less  strong-willed  of  the  two,  yielded  himself  up  at  the  very 
first  glance  to  the  beautiful  stranger,  while  Cyril  required 
some  further  acquaintance  before  quite  giving  way  and  losing 
his  heart  outright  to  her.  And  from  that  first  meeting  for- 
ward, Guy  had  carried  Elma  Clifford's  image  engraved  upon 
his  memory — as  he  would  carry  it,  he  believed,  to  his  dying 
day.  Not,  to  be  sure,  that  he  ever  thought  for  a  moment  of 
endeavoring  to  win  her  away  from  his  brother.  She  was 
Cyril's  discovery,  and  to  Cyril,  therefore,  he  yielded  her  up, 
as  of  prior  right,  though  with  a  pang  of  reluctance.  But  now 
that  he  stood  face  to  face  at  last  with  his  own  accomplished 
crime,  the  first  thought  that  rose  in  his  mind  spontaneous  was 
for  Elma's  happiness.  He  must  never  let  Elma  Clifford  know 
that  the  man  she  loved,  and  would  doubtless  marry,  was  now 
by  his  act — a  forger's  brother. 

Three  forty-five  arrived  at  last,  and  Guy  set  off,  all  trem- 
bling, on  his  fatal  quest.  As  he  sped  along,  indignant  at 
heart  with  Nevitt's  black  tr«^achery,  on  the  line  to  Plymouth, 
he  had  plenty  of  time  to  revolve  these  things  abundantly  in 
his  own  soul.  And  when,  after  a  long  and  dusty  drive,  he 
reached  Plymouth,  late  at  night,  he  could  learn  nothing  for 
the  moment  about  Montague  Nevitt's  movements.  So  he  was 
forced  to  go  quietly  for  the  evening  to  the  Duke  of  Devon- 
shire Hotel,  and  there  wait  as  best  he  might  to  see  how  events 
would  next  develop  themselves. 

A  day  passed  away  —  two  days — but  nothing  turned  up. 
Guy  wasted  much  time  in  Plymouth  making  various  inquiries 
before  he  learned  at  last  that  a  man  with  a  queer  look  abouw  the 
eyes  and  a  mustache  with  waxed  ends  had  gone  down  a  night 
or  so  earlier,  by  the  other  line,  to  a  station  at  the  foot  of  Dart- 
moor by  the  name  of  Mambury. 

No  sooner,  however,  had  he  learned  this  promising  news,  than 
he  set  off  at  once,  hot  at  heart  as  ever,  to  pursue  the  robber. 
That  wretch  shouldn't  get  away  scot-free  with  his  booty;  Guy 
would  follow  him  and  denounce  him  to  the  other  end  of  the 
universe  !  When  he  reached  Mambury  he  went  direct  to  the 
village  inn^  and  asked,  with  trembling  lips,  if  Mr.  Montague 


ml 

'i 
4 


1136 


what's  bred  in   the  bONE. 


Nevitt  was  at  present  staying  there.  The  landlord  shook  his 
head  with  a  stubborn,  rustic  negative.  "  No,  we  arn't  a-got  no 
gentleman  o'  thik  there  name  in  the  house,"  he  said;  "  fact  is, 
zur,  to  tell  'ee  the  truth,  we  arn't  a-had  nobody  stoppin'  in  the 
Arms  at  all  lately,  'cep'  it  might  be  a  gentleman  come  down 
from  London,  an'  it  was  day  afore  yesterday  as  he  did  come, 
an'  he  do  cail  'unself  McGregor." 

Quick  as  lightning,  Guy  suspected  Nevitt  might  be  passing 
under  a  false  name.  What  more  likely,  indeed,  seeing  he  had 
made  off  with  Guy's  three  thousand  pounds? 

"And  what  sort  of  a  man  is  this  McGregor  ? "  he  asked, 
hastily,  putting  his  suspicion  into  shape.  "  What  age  ?  What 
height  ?    What  kind  of  a  person  to  look  at  ? " 

"  Wull,  he's  a  vine  upstandin'  zart  of  a  gentleman,"  the 
landlord  answered,  glibly,  in  his  own  dialeci;  "  as  proper  a 
gentleman  as  you'd  wish  to  zee  in  a  day's  march;  med  be 
about  your  height,  zur,  or  a  trifle  more;  has  his  mustaches 
curled  round  zame  as  if  it  medbe  abellick  harns;  an'  a  strange 
zart  o'  a  look  about  his  eyes,  too,  as  if  ur  could  zee  right  drew 
an'  drew  'ee." 

"  That's  him  ! "  Guy  exclaimed,  with  a  start,  in  profound 
excitement.  "  That's  the  fellow,  sure  enough.  I  know  him,  I 
know  him.  And  where  is  he  now,  landlord  ?  Is  he  in  the 
house  ?    Can  I  see  him  ? " 

"  Well,  no,  'ee  can't  zee  him^  zur,"  the  landlord  answered, 
eying  the  stranger  askance;  "  he  be  out,  jest  at  present.  He 
do  go  vur  a  walk,  mostly,  down  yonner  in  the  bottom  alongside 
the  brook.  Mebbe  if  you  was  to  vollow  by  river-bank,  you 
med  come  up  wi'  him  by  an,  by  ...  an  mebbe,  agin,  you 
medn't." 

"I'll  follow  him,"  Guy  exclaimed,  growing  more  excited 
than  ever,  now  this  quarry  was  almost  well  within  sight;  "  I'll 
follow  him  till  I  find  him,  the  confounded  rascal.  I'll  follow 
him  to  his  grave!     He  sha'n't  get  away  from  me  !  " 

The  landlord  looked  at  him  with  a  dubious  frown.  That 
one  could  smile  and  smile  and  be  a  villain  didn't  enter  into 
his  simple  rustic  philosophy. 

"  He's  a  pleasant-spoken  gentleman,  is  Maister  McGregor," 
the  honest  Devonian  said,  with  a  tinge  of  disapprobation  in 
his  thick  voice.  "  What  vur  do  'ee  want  to  vind  'un  ?  That's 
what  /  wants  to  know.  He  don't  look  like  one  as  did  ever 
hurt  a  vlea.    Such  a  soft  zart  of  a  voice.    An'  he  do  play  on 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


127 


the  viddle  that  beautiful  —  that  beautiful,  why,  'tis  the  zame 
if  he  war  a  angel  from  heaven.  Viddler  Moore,  he  wur  up 
here  wi'  his  music  last  night;  and  Maister  McGregor,  he  took 
the  instrument  vrom  un'  an*,  *  Let  me  have  a  try,  my  vriend,* 
says  he,  all  modest  and  unassoomin';  and,  vi'  that,  he  wounded 
it  up,  an'  he  begun  to  play.  Lard,  how  he  did  play.  Never 
heard  nothing  like  it  in  all  my  barn  days.  It  is  the  zame,  vor 
all  the  world,  as  you  do  hear  they  viddler  chaps  that  plays  by 
themselves  in  the  Albert  Hall  up  to  London.  Depend  upon 
it,  zur,  there  ain't  no  harm  in  him,  A  vullow  as  can  play  on 
the  viddle  like  thik  there,  why,  he  couldn't  do  no  hurt,  not  to 
child  nor  chicken." 

Guy  turned  away  from  the  door,  fretting  and  fuming 
inwardly.  He  knew  better  than  that.  Nevitt's  consummate 
mastery  of  his  chosen  instrument  was  but  of  a  piece,  after  all, 
with  the  way  he  could  play  on  all  the  world,  as  on  a  familiar 
gamut.  It  was  the  very  skill  of  the  man  that  made  him  so 
dangerous  and  so  devilish.  Guy  felt  that  under  the  spell  of 
Nevitt's  eye  he  himself  was  but  as  clay  in  the  hands  of  the 
potter. 

But  Nevitt  should  never  so  trick  him  and  twist  him  again; 
to  that  his  mind  was  now  fully  made  up.  He  would  never 
let  that  cold  eye  hold  him  fixed  as  of  yore  by  its  steely  glance. 
Once  for  all,  Nevitt  had  proved  his  power  too  well.  Guy 
would  take  good  care  he  never  subjected  himself  in  future  to 
that  uncanny  influence.  One  forgery  was  enough.  Henceforth 
he  was  adamant. 

And  yet?  And  yet  he  was  going  to  seek  out  Nevitt;  going 
to  stand  face  to  face  with  that  smiling  villain  again;  going  to 
tax  him  with  his  crime;  going  to  ask  him  what  he  meant  by 
this  double-dyed  treachery. 

The  landlord  had  told  him  where  Nevitt  was  most  likely  to 
be  found.  He  followed  that  direction.  At  a  gate  that  turned 
by  the  river-bank,  twenty  minutes  from  the  inn,  a  small  boy 
was  seated.  He  was  a  Devonshire  boy  of  the  poorest  moor- 
land type,  short,  squat,  and  thick-set.  As  Guy  reached  the 
gate,  the  boy  rose  and  opened  it,  pulling  his  forelock  twice  or 
thrice,  expectant  of  a  ha'penny.  "  Has  anybody  gone  down 
here  ?  "  Guy  asked,  in  an  excited  voice. 

And  the  boy  answered  promptly,  "  Yes,  thik  there  gentle* 
man  what's  stoppin'  at  the  Talbot  Arms;  and  another  gen* 
tleman,  too,  on'y  t'other  one  come  after  and  went  t'other  way 


*.  L 


128 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


round.  A  big  zart  o*  a  gentleman,  wi*  *ands  vit  for  two.  He 
axed  me  the  zame  question,  had  anybody  gone  by.  This  is 
dree  of  'ee  as  has  come  zince  I've  bin  a  zitting  here." 

Guy  paid  no  attention  to  the  second-named  gentleman,  with 
the  hands  fit  for  two,  or  to  his  inquiries  after  who  might  have 
gone  before  him.  He  fastened  at  once  on  the  really  important 
and  serious  information  that  the  person  who  was  stopping  at 
the  Talbot  Arms  had  shortly  before  turned  down  the  side  foot- 
path. 

"  All  right,  my  boy,"  he  said,  tossing  the  lad  a  sixpence,  the 
first  coin  he  came  across  in  his  waistcoat  pocket.  The  boy 
opened  his  eyes  wide,  and  pocketed  it  with  a  grin.  So  unex- 
pected a  largess  sufficed  to  impress  the  handsome  stranger 
firmly  on  his  memory.  He  didn't  forget  him  when,  a  few  days 
later,  he  was  called  on  to  give  evidence — at  a  coroner's  inquest. 

But  Guy,  unsuspicious  of  the  harm  he  had  done  himself, 
walked  on,  all  on  fire,  down  the  woodland  path.  It  was  a 
shady  path,  and  it  led  through  a  deep  dell  arched  with  hazels 
on  every  side,  while  a  little  brawling  brook  ran  along  hard  by, 
more  heard  than  seen,  in  the  bottom  of  the  dingle.  Thick 
bramble  obscured  the  petty  rapids  from  view  and  half-trailed 
their  lush  shoots  here  and  there  across  the  pathway.  It  was 
just  such  a  mossy  spot  as  Cyril  would  have  loved  to  paint; 
and  Guy,  himself  half  an  artist  by  nature,  would  in  any  other 
mood  have  paused  to  gaze  delighted  on  its  tangled  greenery. 

As  it  was,  however,  he  was  in  no  mood  to  loiter  long  over 
ferns  and  mosses.  He  walked  down  that  narrow  way,  where 
luxuriant  branches  of  fresh,  green  blackberry-bushes  en- 
croached upon  the  track,  still  seething  in  soul,  and  full  of  the 
bitter  wrong  inflicted  upon  him  by  the  man  he  had  till  lately 
considered  his  dearest  friend.  At  each  bend  of  the  footpath, 
as  it  threaded  its  way  through  the  tortuous  dell,  following  close 
the  elbows  of  the  bickering  little  stream,  he  expected  to  come 
full  in  sight  of  Nevitt.  But  gaze  as  he  would,  no  Nevitt 
appeared.  He  must  have  gone  on,  Guy  thought,  and  come 
out  at  the  other  end,  into  the  upland  road  of  which  the  porters 
at  Mambury  station  had  told  him. 

At  last  he  arrived  at  a  delicious  green  nook,  where  the  shade 
of  the  trees  overhead  was  exceptionally  dense,  and  where  the 
ferns  by  the  side  were  somewhat  torn  and  trod  len.  Casting 
his  eye  on  the  ground  to  the  left,  a  metal  clasp,  gleaming 
silvery  among  the  bracken,  happened  to  attract  his  cursory 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


129 


vo.    He 
This  is 

an,  with 
jht  have 
iportant 
pping  at 
de  foot- 

nce,  the 

rhe  boy 

lo  unex- 

stranger 

ew  days 

inquest. 

himself, 

[t  was  a 

!i  hazels 

lard  by. 

Thick 

f-trailed 

It  was 

D  paint; 

ly  other 

■eenery. 

ng  over 

,  where 

les  en- 

of  the 

lately 

otpath, 

g  close 

come 

Nevitt 

come 

sorters 

shade 
ire  the 
asting 
aming 
ursory 


i 


attention.  Something  about  that  clasp  looked  strangely 
familiar.  He  paused  and  stared  hard  at  it.  Surel}',  surely 
he  had  seen  those  metal  knobs  before.  A  flash  of  recognition 
ran  electric  through  his  brain.  Why,  yes;  it  was  the  fastener 
of  Montague  Nevitt's  pocket-book  —  the  pocket-book  in  which 
he  carried  his  most  private  documents;  the  pocket-book  that 
must  have  held  Cyril's  stolen  six  thousand.  Guy  stooped 
down  to  pick  it  up  with  a  whirling  sense  of  surprise.  Great 
heavens!  what  was  this?  Not  only  the  clasp,  but  the  pocket- 
book  itself  —  the  pocket-book  filled  full  and  crammed  to 
bursting  with  papers.  Ah,  mercy,  what  papers?  Yes,  incredi- 
ble— the  money!  Hundred-pound  notes!  Not  a  doubt  upon 
earth  of  it.  The  whole  of  the  stolen  and  re-stolen  three 
thousand. 

For  a  minute  or  two  Guy  stood  there,  unable  to  believe  his 
own  swimming  eyes.  What  on  earth  could  have  happened? 
AVas  it  chance  or  design?  Had  Nevitt  deliberately  thrown 
away  his  ill-gotten  gains?  Were  detectives  on  the  track? 
Was  he  anxious  to  conceal  his  part  of  the  theft?  Had  remorse 
got  the  better  of  him?  Or  was  he  frightened  at  last,  thinking 
Guy  was  on  his  way  to  recover  and  restore  Cyril's  stolen 
property? 

But  no,  the  pocket-book  was  neither  hidden  in  the  ferns  nor 
yet  studiously  thrown  away.  From  the  place  where  it  lay, 
Guy  felt  confident  at  once  it  had  fallen  un perceived  from 
Nevitt's  pocket,  and  been  trodden  by  his  heel  unawares  into 
the  yielding  leaf-mold. 

Had  he  pulled  it  out  accidentally  with  his  handkerchief? 
Very  likely,  Guy  thought.  But  then,  how  strange  and  improb- 
able that  a  man  so  methodical  and  calculatingas  Nevitt  should 
carry  such  valuable  belongings  as  those  in  the  self-same  pocket. 
It  was  certainly  most  singular.  However,  Guy  congratulated 
himself  after  a  moment's  pause  that  so  much,  at  least,  of  the 
stolen  property  was  duly  recovered.  He  could  pay  back  one- 
half  of  the  purloined  sum  now  to  Cyril's  credit.  So  he  went 
on  his  way  through  the  rest  of  the  wood  in  a  somewhat  calmer 
and  easier  frame  of  mind.  To  be  sure,  he  had  still  to  hunt 
down  that  villain  Nevitt,  and  to  tax  him  to  his  face  with  his 
(jouble-dyed  treachery.  But  it  was  something,  nevertheless, 
to  have  recovered  a  part,  at  any  rate,  of  the  stolen  money. 
And  Nevitt  himself  need  never  know  by  what  fortunate  acci- 
dent he  had  happened  to  recover  it. 


h 


130 


what's  bred  in  thk  bone. 


k'! 


He  emerged  on  the  upland  road,  and  struck  back  toward 
Mambury.  All  the  way  round,  he  never  saw  his  man.  Weary 
with  walking,  he  returned  in  the  end  to  the  Talbot  Arms. 
Had  Mr.  McGregor  come  back?  No,  not  yet;  but  he  was 
sure  to  be  home  for  dinner.  Then  Guy  would  wait,  and  dine 
at  the  inn  as  well.  He  might  have  to  stop  all  night,  but  he 
must  see  McGregor. 

As  the  day  wore  on,  however,  it  became  gradually  clear  to 
him  that  Montague  Nevitt  didn't  mean  to  return  at  all.  Hour 
after  hour  passed  by,  but  nothing  was  heard  of  him.  The 
landlord,  good  man,  began  to  express  his  doubts  and  fears 
most  freely.  He  hoped  no  harm  hadn't  come  to  the  gentleman 
in  the  parlor:  he  had  a  powerful  zight  o'  money  on  un  for  a 
man  to  carry  about;  the  landlord  had  zeen  it  when  he  took 
out  his  book  from  his  pocket  to  pay  the  porter.  Volks  didn't 
ought  to  go  about  with  two  or  dree  hundred  pound  or  more  in 
the  lonely  lanes  on  the  edge  of  the  moorland. 

But  Guy,  for  his  part,  put  a  different  interpretation  on  the 
affair  at  once.  In  some  way  or  other  Montague  Nevitt,  he 
thought,  must  have  found  oat  that  he  was  being  tracked,  and 
fearing  for  his  safety,  must  have  dropped  the  pocket-book  and 
made  off,  without  note  or  notice  given,  on  his  own  sound  legs, 
for  some  other  part  of  the  country. 

So  Guy  made  up  his  mind  to  return  next  morning  by  the 
very  first  train  direct  to  Plymouth,  and  there  inquire  once 
more  whether  anything  further  had  been  seen  of  the  notice- 
able stranger. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


A   SLIGHT   MISUNDERSTANDING. 

On  the  very  same  day  that  Guy  Waring  visited  Mambury, 
where  his  mother  was  married,  Montague  Nevitt  had  hunted 
up  the  entry  of  Colonel  Kelmscott's  wedding  in  the  church 
register. 

Nevitt's  behavior,  to  say  the  truth,  wasn't  quite  so  black  as 
Guy  Waring  painted  it.  He  had  gone  off  with  the  extra  three 
thousand  in  his  pocket,  to  be  sure;  but  he  didn't  intend  to 
appropriate  it  outright  to  his  own  use.  He  merely  meant  to 
give  Guy  a  thoroughly  good  fright,  as  it  wasn't  really  neces- 


WHAT  S  BRED  iN   THE   BONE. 


181 


sary  the  cill  should  be  met  for  another  fortnight;  and  then,  as 
soon  as  he'd  found  out  the  truth  about  Colonel  Kelmscott 
and  his  unacknowledged  sons,  he  proposed  to  use  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  forgery  as  a  lever  with  Guy,  so  as  to  force  him  to 
come  to  advantageous  terms  with  his  supposed  father.  Nevitt's 
idea  was  that  Guy  and  Cyril  should  drive  a  hard  bargain  on 
their  own  account  with  the  Colonel,  and  that  he  himself 
should  then  receive  a  handsome  commission  on  the  transaction 
from  both  the  brothers,  under  penalty  of  disclosing  the  true 
facts  about  the  check  by  whose  aid  Guy  had  met  their  joint 
liability  to  the  Rio  Negro  Diamond  Mines. 

It  was  with  no  small  joy,  therefore,  that  Nevitt  saw  at  last, 
in  the  parish  register  of  St.  Mary's  at  Mambury,  the  interest- 
ing announcement:  "June  27,  Henry  Lucius  Kelmscott,  of  the 
parish  of  Plymouth,  bachelor,  private  in  the  Regiment  of 
Scots  Grays,  to  Lucy  Waring,  spinster,  of  this  parish." 

He  saw  at  a  glance,  of  course,  why  Kelmscott  of  Tilgate  had 
chosen  to  describe  himself  in  this  case  as  a  private  soldier; 
but  he  also  saw  that  the  entry  was  an  official  document,  and 
that  here  he  had  one  firm  hold  the  more  on  Colonel  Kelmscott, 
who  must  falsely  have  sworn  to  that  incorrect  description. 
The  great  point  of  all,  however,  was  the  signature  to  the  book; 
and  though  nearly  thirty  years  had  clasped  since  those  words 
were  written,  it  was  clear  to  Nevitt,  when  he  compared  the 
autograph  in  the  register  with  one  of  Colonel  Kelmscott's 
recent  business  letters,  brought  with  him  for  the  purpose, 
that  both  had  been  penned  by  one  and  the  same  person. 

He  chuckled  to  himself  with  delight  to  think  how  great  a 
benefactor  he  had  proved  himself  unawares  to  Guy  and  Cyril. 
At  that  very  moment,  no  doubt,  his  misguided  young  friend, 
whom  he  had  compelled  to  assist  him  with  the  sinews  of  war 
for  this  important  campaign,  was  reviling  and  objurgating  him 
in  revengeful  terms  as  the  blackest  and  most  infamous  of 
double-dyed  traitors.  Ah,  well!  ah,  well!  the  good  are  inured 
to  gross  ingratitude.  Guy  little  knew,  as  he,  Montague  Nevitt, 
stood  there  triumphant  in  the  vestry,  blandly  rewarding  the 
expectant  clerk  for  his  pains  with  a  whole  Bank  of  England 
five-pound  note — the  largest  sum  that  functionary  had  ever 
in  his  life  received  all  at  once  in  a  single  payment — Guy  little 
knew  that  Nevitt  was  really  the  chief  friend  and  founder  of 
the  family  fortunes,  and  was  prepared  to  compel  the  "  un- 
known benefactor  "  (for  a  moderate  commission)  to  recognize 


s 


132 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


■w-       I- 


ii 

i\ 

•  / 
I 


ti 


his  unacknowledged  first-born  sons  before  all  the  world  as  the 
heirs  to  Tilgate.  But  yesterday,  they  were  nameless  waifs 
and  strays,  of  uncertain  origin,  ashamed  of  their  birth,  and 
ignorant  even  whe-her  they  had  been  duly  begotten  in  lawful 
wedlock;  to-day,  they  were  the  legal  inheritors  of  an  honored 
name  and  a  great  estate,  the  first  and  foremost  among  the 
landed  gentry  of  a  wealthy  and  beautiful  English  county. 

He  smiled  to  think  what  a  good  turn  he  had  done  unawares 
to  those  ungrateful  youths — and  how  little  credit,  as  yet,  they 
were  prepared  to  give  him  for  it.  In  such  a  mood  he  returned 
to  the  inn  to  lunch.  His  spirits  were  high.  This  was  a  good 
day's  work,  and  he  could  afford,  indeed,  to  make  merry  with 
his  host  over  it.  He  ordered  in  a  bottle  of  wine — such  wine 
as  the  little  country  cellar  could  produce — and  invited  that 
honest  man,  the  landlord,  to  step  in  and  share  it  with  him.  He 
had  tasted  worse  sherry  on  London  dinner-tables,  and  he  told 
his  host  so.  An  affable  man  with  inferiors,  Mr.  Montague 
Nevitt!  Then  he  strolled  out  by  himself  down  the  path  by 
the  brook.  It  was  a  pleasant  walk,  with  the  water  making 
music  in  little  trickles  by  its  side,  and  Montague  Nevitt,  as  a 
man  of  taste,  found  it  suited  exactly  with  his  temper  for  the 
moment.  He  noted  an  undercurrent  of  rejoicing  and  tri- 
umphant cheeriness  in  the  tone  of  the  stream,  as  it  plashed 
among  the  pebbles  on  its  precipitous  bed,  that  suggested  to  his 
mind  some  bars  of  a  symphcny  which  he  determined  to  com- 
pose as  soon  as  he  got  home  again  to  his  beloved  fiddle. 

So  he  walked  along  by  himself,  elate,  and  with  a  springy 
step,  on  thoughts  of  ambition  intent,  till  he  came  at  last  to  a 
cool  and  shadowy  place,  where  as  yet  the  ferns  were  «<?/ broken 
down  and  trampled  under  foot,  though  Guy  Waring  found 
them  so  some  twenty  minutes  latter. 

At  that  spot  he  looked  up,  and  saw  advancing  along  the 
path  in  the  opposite  direction  the  burly  figure  of  a  man,  in  a 
light  tourist  suit,  whoL  he  hadn't  yet  observed  since  he  came 
to  Mambury.  Th;i  very  first  point  he  noticed  about  the  man, 
long  before  he  recognized  him,  was  a  pair  of  overgrown,  obtru- 
sive hands,  held  somewhat  awkwardly  in  front  of  him — just 
like  Gilbert  Gildersleeve's.  The  likeness,  indeed,  was  so  ridic- 
ulously close  that  Montague  Nevitt  smiled  quietly  to  himself 
to  observe  it.  If  he'd  been  in  the  Tilgate  district,  now,  he'd 
have  declared,  without  the  slightest  hesitation,  that  the  roan 
on  the  path  waf  Gilbert  Gildersleeve. 


\f\ 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


133 


One  second  later,  he  pulled  himself  up  with  a  jerk  in  alarmed 
surprise.  *•  Great  heavens!  "  he  cried  to  himself,  a  weird  sense 
of  awe  creeping  over  him  piecemeal;  "either  this  is  a  dream 
or  else  it  is,  it  must  be  Gilbert  Gildersleeve." 

And  so,  indeed,  it  was.  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  himself,  in  his 
proper  person.  But  the  eminent  Q.  C,  better  versed  in  the 
wiles  of  time  and  place  than  Guy  Waring  in  his  innocence, 
had  not  come  obtrusively  to  Mambury  village  nor  asked  point- 
blank  at  the  Talbot  Arms  by  his  own  right  name  for  the  man 
he  was  in  search  of.  Such  simplicity  of  procedure  would  never 
even  have  occurred  to  that  practiced  hand  at  the  Old  Bailey. 
Mr.  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  appeared  on  that  woodland  path  in 
the  general  guise  of  the  common  pedestrian  tourist,  with  his 
headquarters  at  Ivybridge,  walking  about  on  the  congenial 
outskirts  of  the  moor  in  search  of  the  picturesque,  and  coming 
and  going  by  mere  acciilent  through  Mambury.  He  had  hov- 
ered around  the  neighborhood  for  two  days,  off  and  on,  in 
search  of  his  man;  and  now,  by  careful  watching,  like  an  ama- 
teur detective,  he  had  run  his  prey  to  earth  by  a  dexterous 
flank  movement,  and  secured  an  interview  with  him  where  he 
couldn't  shirk  or  avoid  it. 

To  Montague  Nevitt,  however,  the  meeting  seemed  at  first 
sight  but  the  purest  accident.  He  had  no  reason  to  suppose, 
indeed,  that  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  had  any  special  interest  in  his 
visit  to  Mambury,  further  than  might  be  implied  in  its  possible 
connection  with  Granville  Kelmscott's  affairs;  and  he  didn't 
believe  Gwendoline,  in  her  fear  of  her  father,  that  blustering 
man,  would  ever  have  communicated  to  him  the  personal  facts 
of  their  interview  at  Tilgate.  So  he  advanced  to  meet  his 
old  acquaintance,  the  barrister,  with  frankly  outstretched 
hand. 

"  Mr.  Gildersleeve!  "  he  exclaimed,  in  some  surprise.  "  No, 
it  can't  be  you.     Well,  this  ts  indeed  an  unexpected  pleasure." 

Gilbert  Gildersleeve  gazed  down  upon  him  from  the  tower- 
ing elevation  of  his  six  feet  four.  Montague  Nevitt  was  tall 
enough,  as  men  go  in  England,  but  with  his  slim,  tailor-made 
form,  and  his  waxed  mustaches,  he  looked  by  the  side  of  that 
big-built  giant  like  a  Bond  Street  exquisite  before  some  prize^ 
fighting  Goliath.  The  barrister  didn't  hold  out  his  huge  hand 
in  return.  On  the  contrary,  he  concealed  it,  as  far  as  was 
possible,  behind  his  burly  back,  and  looking  down  from  the 
full    height  of    his  contempt    upon    the    sinister,  smirking 


I 


\l 


\ 


I 


134 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE    BONE. 


creature  who  advanced  to  greet  him  with  that  false  smile  on 
his  face,  he  asked,  severely: 

•*  What  are  you  doing  here?  That's  what  /  have  to  ask. 
What  foxy  ferreting  have  you  come  down  to  Mambury  for? " 

"  Foxy  ferreting,"  Montague  Nevitt  repeated,  drawing  back 
as  if  stung,  and  profoundly  astonished.  "  Why,  what  do  you 
mean  by  that,  Mr.  Gildersleeve?  I  don't  understand  you." 
The  home-thrust  was  too  tr^e  (after  the  great  cross-examiner's 
well-known  bullying  manner)  not  to  pierce  him  to  the  quick. 
"  Who  dares  to  say  I  go  anywhere  ferreting? " 

"/  do,"  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  answered,  with  assured  confi- 
dence. "  I  say  it,  and  I  know  it.  You  pitiful  sneak,  don't 
deny  it  to  mg.  You  were  in  the  vestry  this  morning  looking 
up  the  registers.  Even  you,  with  your  false  eyes,  sir,  daren't 
look  me  in  the  face  and  tell  me  you  weren't.  I  saw  yea  there 
myself.  And  I  know  you  found  in  the  books  what  you  wanted, 
for  you  paid  the  clerk  an  extravagant  fee  .  .  .  What's  that? 
You  rat!  don't  try  to  interrupt  me;  don't  try  to  bully  me. 
It  never  succeeds.  Montague  Nevitt,  I  tell  you  I  won't  be 
bullied."  And  the  great  Q.  C.  put  his  foot  down  on  the  path 
with  an  elephantine  solidity  that  made  the  prospect  of  bully- 
ing him  seem  tolerably  unlikely.  "  I  know  the  facts,  and  I'll 
stand  no  prevarication.  Now,  tell  me,  what  vile  use  did  you 
mean  to  make  of  your  discovery  this  morning?  " 

Montague  Nevitt  drew  back,  fairly  nonplussed  for  the  mo- 
ment by  such  a  vigorous  and  unexpected  attack  on  his  flank. 
Resourceful  as  he  was,  even  his  cunning  mind  came  wholly 
unprepared  to  this  sudden  cross-questioning.  He  felt  his  own 
physical  inferiority  to  the  big  Q.  C.  more  keenly  just  then  than 
he  could  ever  have  conceived  it  possible  for  a  man  of  his  type 
to  feel  it.  After  all,  mind  doesn't  always  triumph  over  matter. 
Montague  Nevitt  was  aware  that  that  mountain  of  a  man,  with 
his  six  feet  four  of  muscular  humanity,  fairly  cowed  and  over- 
awed him  at  such  very  close  quarters. 

"  I  don't  see  what  business  it  is  of  yours,  Mr.  Gildersleeve," 
he  murmured,  in  a  somewhat  apologetic  voice.  "  I  may  surely 
be  allowed  to  hunt  up  questions  of  pedigree,  of  service  in  the 
end  to  myself  and  my  friends,  without ^^«r  interference." 

Gilbert  Gildersleeve  glared  at  him,  and  flared  up  all  at 
once  with  righteous  indignation. 

"Of  service  in  the  end  to  yourself  and  your  friends!  "  he 
cried,  with  unfeigned  scorn,  putting  his  own  interpretation,  as 


N   ; 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE    BONE. 


135 


!l      ' 


smile  on 

to  ask. 
iry  for? " 
ingback 

do  you 
id  you." 
aminer's 
e  quick. 

;d  confi- 
ik,  don't 
looking 
daren't 
3U  there 
wanted, 
t's  that? 
illy  me. 
won'^  be 
he  path 
f  bully- 
and  I'll 
did  you 

the  mo- 
s  flank. 
•  wholly 
his  own 
en  than 
lis  type 
matter, 
m,  wiih 
id  over- 

ileeve," 
>r  surely 
!  in  the 

2." 

all   at 

Is! "  he 
ion,  as 


was  natural,  on  the  words.  "Why,  you  cur!  you  reptile!  you 
unblushing  sneak!  do  you  mean  to  say  openly  you  avow  your 
intention  of  threatening  and  blackmailing  me?  here — alone — 
to  my  face!  You  extortionate  wretch!  I  wouldn't  heme  be- 
lieved even  you  in  your  heart  would  descend  to  such 
meanness. 

Montague  Nevitt,  flurried  and  taken  aback  as  he  was,  yet 
reflected  vaguely  with  some  wonder,  as  he  listened  and  looked, 
what  tliib  sudden  passion  of  disinterested  zeal  could  betoken. 
Why  such  burning  solicitude  for  Colonel  Kelmscott's  estate  on 
the  part  of  a  man  who  was  his  avowed  enem.y?  Even  if 
Ciwendoline  meant  to  marry  the  young  fellow  Granville,  with 
her  father's  consent,  how  could  Nevitt  himself  levy  blackmail 
upon  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  by  his  knowledge  of  the  two  War- 
ings'  claim  to  the  property?  A  complication  surely.  Was 
there  not  some  unexpected  intricacy  here  which  the  cunning 
schemer  himself  didn't  yet  understand,  but  which  might 
redound,  if  unraveled,  to  his  greater  advantage? 

"Blackmail^w/,  Mr.  Gildersleeve;"  he  cried,  with  a  right- 
eously indignant  air!  "That's  an  ugly  word.  I  blackmail  no- 
^  body ;  and  least  of  all,  the  father  of  a  lady  whom  I  still  regard,  in 

spite  of  all  she  can  say  or  do  to  make  my  life  a  blank,  with 
affection  and  respect  as  profound  as  ever.  How  can  my 
inquiries  into  the  two  Warings'  affairs — " 

Gilbeit  Gildersleeve  crushed  him  with  a  sudden  outburst  of 
indignant  wrath. 

"You  cad!  "  he  cried,  growing  red  in  the  face  with  horror 
and  disgust.  "  You  dare  to  speak  so  to  me,  and  to  urge  such 
motives!  But  you've  mistaken  >  our  man.  I  won't  be  bullied. 
If  what  you  want  is  to  use  this  vile  knowledge  you've  so  vilely 
ferreted  out  as  a  lever  to  compel  me  to  marry  my  daughter  to 
you  against  her  will,  I  can  only  tell  you,  you  sneak,  you're  on 
the  wrong  tack.  I  will  never  consent  to  it.  You  may  do  your 
worst,  but  you  will  never  bend  me.  I'm  not  a  man  to  be  bent 
or  bullied — I  won't  be  put  down.  I'll  withstand  you  and  defy 
you.  You  may  ruin  me,  if  you  like,  but  you'll  never  break  me. 
I  stand  here  firm.  Expose  me,  and  I'll  fight  you  to  the  bitter 
end;  I'll  fighc  you,  and  I'll  conquer  you." 

He  spoke  with  a  fiery  earnestness  that  Nevitt  was  only  just 
beginning  to  understand;  there  was  something  in  this.  Here 
was  a  clew  indeed  to  follow  up  and  investigate.  Surely  a 
srnenace  tp  Granville  Kelmscott's  prospects  could  never  have 


A!l 


I 


u 


136 


WHAT  S   HRKL)    IN    THE    BONE. 


I'    ^ 


, 

moved  that  heavy,  phlegmatic,  pachydermatous  man  to  such 
an  outburst  of  anger  and  suppressed  fear. 

"Expose  yoiiV'  Nevitt  repeated,  in  a  dazed  and  startled 
voice.  "  Expose  ^y*?//,  my  dear  sir  !  I  assure  you,  in  truth,  I 
don't  understand  you." 

The  barrister  gazed  down  upon  him  with  immeasurable 
scorn.  "You  liar  !"  he  broke  forth,  almost  choking  at  the 
words.  "  How  dare  you  so  pretend  and  prevaricate  to  my 
face  ?  I  know  it's  not  true.  My  own  daughter  told  me.  She 
told  me  what  you  said  to  her — every  word  of  your  vile  threats. 
You  had  the  incredible  meanness  to  terrify  a  poor  helpless  and 
innocent  girl  by  threatening  to  expose  her  mother's  disgrace 
publicly.  Only  you  could  have  done  it;  but  you  did  it,  you 
abject  thing,  you  did  it.  She  told  me  with  her  own  lips  you 
threatened  to  come  down  to  Mambury  to  hunt  up  the  records; 
and  she  told  me  the  truth,  for  I've  seen  you  doing  it." 

A  light  broke  slowly  upon  Montague  Nevitt's  mind.  He 
drew  a  deep  breath.  This  was  good  luck  incredible.  What 
Gilbert  Gildersleeve  meant  he  hadn't  as  yet,  to  be  sure,  the 
faintest  conception;  but  it  was  clear  they  two  wore  at  cross- 
questions  with  one  another.  The  secret  Gilbert  Cildersleeve 
thought  he  had  come  down  to  Mambury  to  discover  was  not 
the  secret  he  had  actually  found  out  in  the  register  that  morn- 
ing. It  was  nothing  about  the  Kelmscotts  or  Guy  and  Cyril 
Waring;  it  was  something  about  the  great  Q.  C.  and  his  wife 
themselves — presumably  some  unknown  and  disgraceful  fact 
in  Mrs.  Gilbert  Gildersleeve's  early  history. 

And  here  was  the  cleverest  lawyer  at  the  English  criminal 
bar  just  giving  himself  away  —  giving  himself  away  unawares 
and  telling  him  the  secret,  bit  by  bit,  unconsciously 

This  chance  was  too  valuable  for  Mr.  Montague  Nevitt  to 
lose.  At  all  risks,  he  must  worm  it  out.  He  paused  and  tem- 
porized. His  cue  was  now  not  to  let  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  see 
he  didn't  know  his  secret.  He  must  draw  on  the  Q  C.  by 
obscure  half-hints  till  he  was  inextricably  entangled  in  a  r>'i- 
plete  confession. 

"  I  had  no  intention  of  terrifying  Miss  Gildersleeve,  I  m 
sure,"  he  said,  in  his  blandest  voice,  with  his  best  company 
smile,  now  recovering  his  equanimity  exactly  in  proportion  as 
the  barrister  grew  angrier.  "  I  merely  desired  to  satisfy 
myself  as  to  the  salient  facts,  and  to  learn  their  true  bearing 
upon  the  family  history.    If  I  spoke  to  her  at  all  as  to  any 


WHATS   BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


137 


knowledge  I  might  possess  with  regard  to  any  other  lady's 
early  antecedents — " 

Gilbert  Gildersleeve's  brow  was  black  as  night.  His  great 
hands  tremblea  and  twitched  convulsively.  Was  ever  black- 
guard so  synically  candid  in  his  avowal  of  the  basest  crimes 
as  this  fine-spoken  specimen  of  the  culture  of  Pall  Mall  in 
his  open  confession  of  that  disgusting  insult  to  a  young 
girl's  innocence  ?  Gilbert  Gildersleeve,  who  was  at  heart  an 
honest  man,  loathed,  and  despised,  and  scorned,  and  detested 
him. 

"  Do  you  dare  to  hint  to  me,  then,"  he  cried,  every  muscle 
of  his  body  quivering  with  just  horror,  *'  that  you  told  my  own 
daughter  you  thought  you  had  reason  to  suspect  her  own 
mother's  early  antecedents  ?  " 

Montague  Nevitt  looked  up  at  him  with  a  quietly  sarcastic 
smile.  "All's  fair  in  love  and  war,  you  know,"  he  said,  not 
caring  to  commit  himself. 

That  smile  sealed  his  fate.  With  an  irrepressible  impulse, 
Gilbert  Gildersleeve  sprung  upon  him.  He  didn't  mean  to 
hurt  the  man;  he  sprung  upon  him  merely  as  the  sole  outlet 
for  his  own  incensed  and  outraged  feelings.  Those  great 
hands  seized  him  for  a  second  by  the  dainty  white  throat,  and 
flung  him  back  in  anger.  Montague  Nevitt  fell  heavily  on  a 
thick  mass  of  bracken.  There  was  a  gurgle,  a  gasp;  then  his 
head  lolled  senseless.  He  was  very  much  hurt;  that  at  least 
was  certain.  The  barrister  stood  over  him  for  a  minute,  still 
purple  in  the  face.  Montague  Nevitt  was  white — very  white 
and  deathlike.  All  at  once  it  occurred  to  the  big,  strong  man 
that  his  hands — those  groat  hands — were  very  fierce  and  pnw- 
erful.  He  had  clutched  Nevitt  by  the  throat,  half-uncon- 
sciously,  with  all  his  might,  just  to  give  him  a  purchase  as  he 
flung  the  man  from  him.  He  looked  at  him  again.  Great 
Heavens  !  what  was  this  ?  It  burst  over  him  at  once.  He 
woke  to  it  with  a  wild  start.  The  fellow  was  dead;  and  this 
was  clearly  manslaughter ! 

Justifiable  homicide,  if  the  jury  knew  all;  but  no  jury  now 
could  ever  know  all.  And  he  had  killed  him  unawares!  A 
great  horror  came  over  him.  The  man  was  dead — the  man 
was  dead;  and  he,  Gilbert  Gildersleeve,  had  unconsciously 
choked  him. 

He  had  no  time  to  think.  He  had  no  time  to  calculate. 
His  wrath  was  still  hot,  though  rapidly  cooling  down  before 


>■ 


:l 


i 


138 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN   THE  BONE. 


this  awful  discovery.  Hide  it !  Hide  it !  Hide  it !  That 
was  all  he  could  think.  He  lifted  the  body  in  his  arms  as 
easily  as  most  men  would  lift  a  baby.  Then  he  laid  it  down 
among  the  brambles  close  beside  the  stream.  Something 
heavy  fell  out  of  the  pocket  as  he  carried  it.  The  barrister 
took  no  heed.  Little  matter  for  that.  He  laid  it  down  in 
fear  and  trembling.  As  soon  as  it  was  hidden  he  fled  for  his 
life.  By  trackless  ways  he  walked  over  the  moor,  and 
returned  to  Ivybridge  unseen  very  late  in  the  evening.  Ten 
minutes  after  he  left  the  spot  Guy  Waring  passed  by  and 
picked  up  the  pocket-book. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


LEAD    TRUMPS. 

Naturally,  under  these  circumstances,  it  was  all  in  vain 
that  Guy  Waring  pursued  his  investigations  into  Montague 
Nevitt's  whereabouts.  Neither  at  Plymouth  nor  anywhere 
else  along  the  skirls  of  Dartmoor  could  he  learn  that  any- 
thing more  had  been  seen  or  heard  of  the  man  who  called 
himself  "Mr.  McGregor."  And  yet  Guy  felt  sure  Nevitt 
wouldn't  go  far  from  Mambury  as  things  stood  just  then;  for 
as  soon  as  he  missed  the  pocket-book  containing  the 
three  thousand  pounds,  he  would  surely  take  some  steps  to 
recover  it. 

Two  days  later,  however,  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  sat  in  the 
hotel  at  Plymouth,  where  he  had  moved  from  Ivybridge  after 
— well,  as  he  phrased  it  to  himself,  after  that  unfortunate 
accident.  The  blustering  Q.  C.  was  like  another  man  now. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  knew  what  it  meant  to  be 
nervous  and  timid.  Every  sound  made  him  suppress  an 
involuntary  start;  for  as  yet  he  had  heard  no  whisper  of  the  body 
being  discovered.  He  couldn't  leave  the  neighborhood,  how- 
ever, till  the  murder  was  out.  Dangerous  as  he  felt  it  to  be 
to  remain  on  the  spot,  some  strange  spell  seemed  to  bind  him 
against  his  will  to  Dartmoor.  He  must  stop  and  hear  what 
local  gossip  had  to  say  when  the  body  came  to  light.  And 
above  all,  for  the  present,  he  hadn't  the  courage  to  go  homej 
he  d^ed  no*:  face  his  own  wif^  ax)d  daughter, 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


139 


■■•) 


So  he  stayed  on,  and  lounged,  and  pretended  to  interest 
himself  with  walks  over  the  hills  and  up  the  Tamar  Valley. 

As  he  sat  there  in  the  billiard-room  that  day,  a  young  fel- 
low entered  whom  he  remembered  to  have  seen  once  or  twice  in 
London,  at  evening  parties,  with  Montague  Nevitt.  He 
turned  pale  at  the  sight — Gilbert  Gildersleeve  turned  pale, 
that  great  red  man.  At  first  he  didn't  even  remember  the 
young  fellow's  name;  but  it  came  back  to  him  in  time  that  he 
was  one  Guy  Waring.  It  was  a  hard  ordeal  to  meet  him,  but 
Gilbert  Gildersleeve  felt  he  must  brazen  it  out.  To  slink 
away  from  the  young  man  would  be  to  rouse  suspicion.  So 
they  sat  and  talked  for  a  minute  or  two  together,  on  indif- 
ferent subjects,  neither,  to  say  the  truth,  being  very  well 
pleased  to  see  the  other  under  such  peculiar  circumstances. 
Then  Guy,  who  had  the  least  reason  for  concealment  of  the 
two,  sauntered  out  for  a  stroll,  with  his  heart  still  full  of  that 
villain  Nevitt,  whose  name.,  of  course,  he  had  never  men- 
tioned to  Gilbert  Gildersleeve.  And  Gilbert  Gildersleeve, 
for  his  part,  had  had  equal  cause  for  a  corresponding 
reticence  as  to  their  common  acquaintance. 

Just  as  Guy  left  the  room,  the  landlord  dropped  in,  and 
began  to  talk  with  his  guest  about  the  latest  new  sensation. 

"Heard  the  news,  sir,  this  morning?"  he  asked,  with  an 
important  air.  "  Inspector's  just  told  me.  A  case  very  much 
in  your  line  of  business.  Dead  body's  been  discovered  at 
Mambury,  choked,  and  then  thrown  down  among  the  brake 
by  the  river.  Name  of  McGregor — a  visitor  from  London. 
And  they  do  say  the  police  have  a  clew  to  the  murderer. 
Person  who  did  it — " 

Gilbert  Gildersleeve's  heart  gave  a  great  bound  within  him, 
and  then  stood  stock-still;  but  by  an  iron  effort  of  will  he 
suppressed  all  outer  sign  of  his  profound  emotion.  He 
seemed  to  the  observant  eye  merely  interested  and  curious, 
as  the  landlord  finished  his  sentence  carelessly — "  Person  who 
did  it's  supposed  to  be  a  young  man  who  was  at  Mambury 
this  week,  of  the  name  of  Waring." 

Gilbert  Gildersleeve's  heart  gave  another  bound,  still  more 
violent  than  before.  But  again  he  repressed  with  difficulty 
all  external  symptoms  of  his  profound  agitation.  This  was 
very  strange  news.  Then  somebody  else  was  suspected 
instead  of  himself.  In  one  way  that  was  bad,  for  Gilbert 
Gildersleeve  had  a  conscience  and  a  sense  of  justice;    but  in 


\  1 


I' 


t 


' 


IS   , 


;* 


U1 


k 


I«i( 


I  n 


i  ii 


140 


what's  bred  in  tuk  hone. 


n 


another  way,  why,  it  would  save  time  for  the  moment,  and 
divert  attention  from  his  own  personality.  Better  anythinj^ 
now  than  immediate  suspicion.  In  a  week  or  two  more  every 
trace  would  be  lost  of  his  presence  at  Mambury. 

"Waring,"  he  said,  thoughtfully,  turning  over  the  name  to 
himself,  as  if  he  attached  it  to  no  particular  individual, 
"  Waring — Waring — Waring." 

He  paused  and  looked  hard.  Ha!  so  far  good!  It  was 
clear  tiie  landlord  didn't  know  Waring  was  the  name  of  the 
young  man  who  had  just  left  the  billiard-room.  This  was 
lucky,  indeed,  for  if  he  /lai^  known  it  now,  and  bad  taxed  Gu}' 
then  and  there,  before  his  very  own  face,  with  being  the  mur- 
derer of  this  unknown  person  at  Mambury,  Gilbert  Gilder- 
sleeve  felt  no  course  would  have  been  open  for  him  save  to  tell 
the  whole  truth  on  the  spot  unreservedly.  Try  as  he  would, 
he  couldnt  see  another  man  arrested  before  his  very  eyes  for 
the  crime  he  himself  had  really,  though  almost  unwittingly, 
committed. 

"Waring,"  he  repeated,  slowly,  like  one  who  endeavored  to 
collect  his  scattered  thoughts;  "what  sort  of  person  was  he, 
do  you  know?  And  how  did  the  police  come  to  get  a  clew 
to  him?" 

The  landlord,  nothing  loath,  went  off  into  a  long  and 
circumstantial  story  of  the  discovery  of  the  body,  with 
minute  details  of  how  the  innkeeper  at  Mambury  had  traced 
the  supposed  murderer  (who  gave  no  name)  by  an  envelope 
which  he'd  left  in  his  bedroom  that  evening.  The  county  was 
up  in  arms  about  the  affair  to-day.  All  Dartmoor  was  being 
searched,  and  it  was  supposed  the  fellow  was  in  hiding  some- 
where in  the  neighborhood  of  Tavistock  or  Oakhampton. 
They'd  catch  him  by  to-night.  The  landlord  wouldn't  be  sur- 
prised, indeed,  now  he  came  to  think  of  it,  if  his  guest  him- 
self— here  a  very  long  pause — were  retained  by  and  by  for  the 
prosecution. 

Gilbert  Gildersleeve  drew  a  deep  breath,  unperceived.  That 
was  all,  was  it?  The  pause  had  unnerved  him.  He  talked 
some  minutes,  as  unconcernedly  as  he  could,  though  trembling 
inwardly  all  the  while,  about  the  murder  and  the  murderer. 
The  landlord  listened  with  profound  respect  to  the  words  of 
legal  wisdom  as  they  dropped  from  his  lips;  for  he  knew  Mr. 
Gildersleeve  by  common  repute  as  one  of  the  ablest  and  acutest 
of  criminal  lawyers  in  all  England.    Then,  after  a  short  inter- 


WHAT  S   BRED    IN    THE    BONE. 


141 


^a 


i 


val,  the  big  burly  man,  moving  his  guilty  fingers  nervously 
over  the  seal  on  his  watch-chain,  and  assuming  as  much  as 
possible  his  ordinary  air  of  blustering  self-assertion,  asked  in 
an  orf-hand  fashion:  "  By  the  way,  let  me  see,  I've  some  busi- 
ness to  arrange;  what's  the  number  of  ray  friend  Mr.  Billing- 
ton's  bedroom. 

The  landlord  looked  up  with  a  little  start  of  surprise. 
"Mr.  Billington? "  he  said,  hesitating.  "We've  got  no  Mr. 
Billington." 

Gilbert  Gildersleeve  smiled  a  sickly  smile.  It  was  neck  or 
nothing  now.  He  must  ^o  right  through  with  it.  "Oh  yes," 
he  answered,  with  prompt  conviction,  playing  a  dangerous  card 
well — for  how  could  he  know  what  name  this  young  man 
Waring  might  possibly  be  passing  under?  "  The  gentleman 
who  was  talking  to  me  when  you  came  in  just  now.  His 
name's  Billington — though,  perhaps,"  he  added,  after  a  pause, 
with  a  reflective  air,  "he  may  have  given  you  another  one. 
Young  men  will  be  young  men.  They've  often  some  reason, 
when  traveling,  for  concealing  their  names;  though  Billing- 
ton's  not  the  sort  of  fellow,  to  be  sure,  who's  likely  to  be 
knocking  about  anywhere  incognito." 

The  landlord  laughed.  "Oh,  we've  plenty  of  that  sort,"  he 
replied,  good-humoredly;  "both  ladies  and  gentlemen.  It  all 
makes  trade.  But  your  friend  ain't  one  of  'em.  To  tell  you 
the  truth,  he  didn't  give  any  name  at  all  when  he  came  to  the 
hotel,  and  we  didn't  ask  any.  Billington,  is  it?  Ah,  Billing- 
ton, Billington.  I  knew  a  Billington  myself  once,  a  trainer  at 
Newmarket.  Well,  he's  a  very  pleasant  young  man,  nice- 
spoken,  and  that;  but  I  don't  fancy  he's  quite  right  in  his 
head,  somehow." 

With  instinctive  cleverness,  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  snatched  at 
the  opening  at  once.  "Ah,  no,  poor  fellow,"  he  said,  shaking 
nis  head  sympathetically;  "you've  found  that  out  already, 
have  you?  Well,  he's  subject  to  delusions  a  bit — mere  harm- 
less delusions;  but  he's  not  at  all  dangerous.  Excitable,  very, 
when  anything  odd  turns  up;  he'll  be  calling  himself  Waring 
and  giving  himself  in  charge  for  this  murder,  I  dare  say,  when 
he  comes  to  hear  of  it.  But  as  good-hearted  a  fellow  as  ever 
lived,  though;  only  a  trifle  obstinate.  If  you've  any  difficulty 
with  him  at  any  time,  just  send  for  me.  I've  known  him  from 
a  boy.     He'll  do  anything  I  tell  him." 

It  wa9  a  cntical  game,  but  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  saw  some- 


iV  ^^i 


i 


If 

5! 


|! 


I 


142 


WHAT  S   BRKD    IN    THE   BONE. 


thing  definite  must  be  done,  and  he  trusted  to  bluster  and  k 
well-known  name  to  carry  him  through  with  it.  And,  indeed, 
he  had  said  enough.  From  that  moment  forth  the  landlord's 
suspicions  were  never  even  so  much  as  aroused  by  the  innocent 
young  man  with  the  preoccupied  manner,  who  knew  Mr.  Gil- 
dersleeve.  The  great  Q.  C.'s  word  was  guarantee  enough — for 
anyone  but  himself;  and  the  great  Q.  C.  himself  knew  it. 
Why,  a  chance  word  from  his  lips  was  enough  to  protect  Guy 
Waring  from  suspicion.  Who  would  ever  believe,  then,  any- 
thing so  preposterously  improbable  as  that  the  great  Q.  C.  him- 
self was  the  murderer? 

Not  the  police,  you  may  be  sure;  nor  the  Plymouth  land- 
lord. 

He  went  out  into  the  town,  with  his  mind  now  filled  full  of 
a  curious  scheme.  A  plan  of  campaign  loomed  up  visibly 
before  him.  Waring  was  suspected;  therefore  Waring  must 
somehow  have  given  cause  for  suspicion.  Well,  Waring  was  a 
friend  of  Montague  Nevitt's,  and  had  evidently  been  at  M«»r.- 
bury,  either  with  him  or  without  him,  immediately  before 
the  —  h'm — the  unfortunate  accident.  But  as  soon  as  War- 
ing came  to  learn  of  the  discovery  of  the  body,  which  he  would 
be  sure  to  do  from  the  papers  that  evening,  at  latest,  he  would 
see  at  once  the  full  strength  of  whatever  suspicions  might  tell 
against  him.  Now  Gilbert  Gildersleeve's  experience  of  crim- 
inal cases  had  abundantly  shown  him  that  a  suspected  person, 
even  when  innocent,  always  has  one  fixed  desire  in  his  head  — 
to  gain  time,  anyhow.  So  Waring  would  naturally  wish  to 
gain  time,  at  whatever  cost.  There  were  evidently  circum- 
stances connecting  Waring  with  the  crime;  there  were  none  at 
all,  known  to  the  outer  world,  connecting  the  eminent  lawyer. 
Therefore,  the  eminent  lawyer  argued  to  himself,  as  coolly, 
almost,  as  if  it  had  been  somebody  else's  case,  not  his  own,  he 
was  conducting  —  therefore,  if  an  immediate  means  of  escape  is 
provided  for  Waring,  Waring  will  almost  undoubtedly  fall 
blindfold  into  it. 

Not  that  he  meant  to  let  Guy  pay  the  penalty  in  the  end  for 
his  own  rash  crime.  He  was  no  hardened  villain.  He  had 
still  a  conscience.  If  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  he  said  to 
himself,  he  would  tell  all,  openly,  rather  than  let  an  innocent 
man  suffer.  But,  like  everything  else,  in  accordance  with  his 
own  inference  from  his  observation  of  others,  he  too  wanted 
to  gain  time,  anyhow;  and  if  he  could  gain  time  by  kindly 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


143 


any- 


helping  Guy  to  escape  for  the  present,  why,  he  would  gladly 
do  so.  An  innocent  man  may  be  suspected  for  the  moment, 
Gilbert  Gildersleeve  thought  to  himself,  with  a  lawyer's  blind 
confidence;  but  under  our  English  law  he  ne'*'^.  never,  at  least, 
fear  that  the  suspicion  will  be  permanent.  For  lawyers  repeat 
their  own  incredible  commonplaces  about  the  absolute  perfec- 
tion of  English  law  so  often  that,  at  last,  by  a  sort  of  retribu- 
tive Nemesis,  they  really  almost  come  to  believe  them. 

Filled  with  these  ideas,  then,  which  rose  naturally  up  in  his 
mind  without  his  taking  the  trouble,  as  it  were,  definitely  to 
prove  them,  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  hurried  on  through  the 
crowded  streets  of  Plymouth  town  till  he  reached  the  office  of 
the  London  and  South  African  Steamship  Company.  There 
he  entered  with  an  air  of  decided  business,  and  asked  to  take 
a  passage  to  Cape  Town  at  once  by  the  steamer  Cetewayo,  due 
to  call  at  Plymouth,  outward  bound,  that  evening.  He  had 
looked  up  particulars  of  sailing  in  the  papers  at  the  hotel,  and 
asked  now,  as  if  for  himself,  for  a  large  and  roomy  berth,  with 
all  his  usual  self-possession  and  boldness  of  manner.  The 
clerk  gazed  at  him  carelessly;  that  big  and  burly  man  with 
the  great  awkward  hands  raised  no  picture  in  his  brain  of  the 
supposed  murderer  of  McGregor  in  the  wood  at  Mambury,  as 
that  murderer  had  been  described  to  him  by  the  police  that 
morning,  from  a  verbal  portrait  after  the  landlord  of  the  Tal- 
bot Arms.  This  colossal,  red-faced,  loud-spoken  person,  who 
required  a  large  and  roomy  berth,  was  certaii  ly  not  the  rather 
slim  young  man,  a  little  above  the  medium  hei^^ht,  with  a  dark 
mustache  and  a  gentle,  musical  voice,  wliuin  the  innkeeper 
had  seen  in  an  excited  mood  on  the  hunt  for  McGregor  along 
the  slopes  of  Dartmoor. 

"What  name?"  the  clerk  asked,  briskly,  after  Gilbert  Gil- 
dersleeve had  selected  his  state-room  from  the  plan,with  some 
show  of  interest  as  to  its  being  well  amidships  and  not  too 
near  the  noise  of  the  engines. 

"Billington,"  the  barrister  answered,  without  a  glimmek'  of 
hesitation.  ''Arthur  Standish  Billington,  if  you  want  the  full 
name.  Thirty-two  will  suit  me  very  well,  I  think,  and  I'll  pay 
for  it  now.  Go  aboard  when  she's  sighted,  I  suppose;  nine 
o'clock,  or  thereabouts." 

The  clerk  made  out  the  ticket  in  the  name  he  was  told. 
"Yes,  nine  o'clock,  he  said,  curtly.  All  luggage  to  be  on 
board  the  tender  by  eight,  sharp.    You've  left  taking  your 


n 


\\ 


f. 


r 


I 


i " 


I 


144 


what's  rued  in  the  bone. 


passage  very  late,  Mr.  BilUngton.  Lucky  we've  a  room  that'll 
suit  you,  I'm  sure.  It  isn't  often  we  have  berths  left  amid- 
ships like  this  on  the  day  of  sailing." 

Gilbert  Gildersleeve  pretended  to  look  unconcerned  once 
more.  "  No,  I  suppose  not,"  he  answered,  in  a  careless  voice. 
"  People  generally  know  their  own  minds  rather  longer  before- 
hand. But  I'd  a  telegram  from  the  Cape  this  morning  that 
calls  me  over  immediately." 

He  folded  up  his  ticket  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  Then  he 
pulled  out  a  roll  of  notes  and  paid  the  amount  in  full.  The 
clerk  gave  him  change  promptly.  Nobody  could  ever  have 
si'.spected  so  solid  a  man  as  the  great  Q.  C.  of  any  more  serious 
crime  or  misdemeanor  than  shirking  the  second  service  on 
Sunday  evening.  There  was  a  ponderous  respectability  about 
his  portly  build  that  defied  detection.  The  agents  of  all  the 
steamboat  companies  had  been  warned  that  morning  that  the 
slim  young  man  of  the  name  of  Waring  might  try  to  escape  at 
the  last  moment.  But  who  could  ever  suspect  this  colossal 
pile,  in  the  British  churchwarden  style  of  human  architecture, 
of  aiding  and  abetting  the  escape  of  the  young  man  Waring 
from  the  pervasive  myrmidons  of  English  justice?  The  very 
id'ja  was  absurd.  Gilbert  Gildersleeve's  waistcoat  was  above 
suspicion. 

And  when  Guy  Waring  returned  to  his  room  at  the  Duke  of 
Devonshire  Hotel  half  an  hour  later,  in  complete  ignorance  as 
yet  of  the  bare  fact  of  the  murder,  he  found  on  his  table  an 
envelope  addressed  in  an  unknown  hand,  "  Guy  Waring,  Esq.," 
while  below  in  the  corner,  twice  underlined,  were  the  import- 
unate words,  ''''Immediate!     Important!^' 

Guy  tore  it  open  in  wonder.  What  on  earth  could  this  mean? 
He  trembled  as  he  read.  Could  Cyril  have  learned  all?  Or 
had  Nevitt,  the  double-dyed  traitor,  now  trebled  his  treach- 
ery by  informing  against  the  man  whom  he  had  driven  into  a 
crime?  Guy  couldn't  imagine  what  it  all  could  be  driving  at, 
for  there  before  his  eyes,  in  a  round,  school-boy  hand,  very 
carefully  formed,  without  the  faintest  trace  of  anything  like 
character,  were  the  words  of  this  strange  and  startling  mes- 
sage, whose  origin  and  intent  were  alike  a  mystery  to  him: 

"  Guy  Waring,  a  warrant  is  out  for  your  apprehension.  Fly 
at  once,  or  things  may  be  worse  for  you.  It  is  something 
always  to  gain  time  for  the  moment.    You  will  avoid  suspi- 


what's  bhf.i)  in  the  bone. 


145 


cion,  public  scandal,  trial.  Inclosed  find  a  ticket  for  Cape 
Tovfn  by  the  Ceieiaayo  to-n\ght.  She  sails  at  nine.  Luggage 
to  be  on  board  the  tender  by  eight,  sharp.  If  you  go,  all  can 
yet  be  satisfactorily  cleared  up.  If  you  stay,  the  danger  is 
great,  and  may  be  very  serious.  Ticket  is  taken  (and  p?id 
for)  in  the  name  of  Arthur  Standish  Billington.  Settle  jour 
account  at  the  hotel  in  that  name,  and  go. 

"Yours,  in  frantic  haste, 

"A  SiNCERK  Well-wisher." 

Guy  gazed  at  the  strange  missive  long  and  dubiously.  "A 
warrant  is  out."  He  scarcely  knew  what  to  do.  Oh,  for 
time,  time,  time!  Had  Cyril  sent  this?  Or  was  it  some  final 
device  of  that  fiend  Nevitt. 


i.j 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


Fly 
sthing 
suspi- 


A  CHANCE  MEETING. 

There  wasn't  much  time  left,  however,  for  Guy  to  make  up 
his  mind  in.  He  must  decide  ctt  once.  Should  he  accept  this 
mysterious  warning  or  not?  Pure  fate  decided  it.  As  he 
hesitated  he  heard  a  boy  crying  in  the  street.  It  was  the 
special-edition  fiend  calling  his  evening  paper.  The  words  the 
boy  said  Guy  didn't  altogether  catch;  but  the  last  sentence  of 
all  fell  on  his  ear  distinctly.  He  started  in  horror.  It  was  an 
awful  sound;  "Warrant  issued  to-day  for  the  apprehension  of 
Waring." 

Then  the  letter,  whoever  wrote  it,  was  not  all  a  lie.  The ' 
forgery  was  out.  Cyril  or  the  bankers  had  learned  the  whole 
truth.  He  was  to  be  arrested  to-day  as  a  common  felon.  All 
the  world  knew  his  shame.  He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 
Come  what  might,  he  must  accept  the  mysterious  warning  now. 
He  would  take  the  ticket  and  go  off  to  South  Africa. 

In  a  moment  a  whole  policy  had  arisen  like  a  cloud  and 

framed  itself  in  his  mind.     He  was  a  forger,  he  knew,  and  by 

this  time  Cyril  too  most  probably  knew  it.     But  he  had  the 

three  thousand  pounds  safe  and  sound  in  his  pocket,  and  those 

at  least  he  could  send  back  to  Cyril.     With  them  he  could  send 

a  check  on  his  own  banker  for  three  thousand  more;   not  that 

there  were  funds  there  at  present  to  meet  the  demand,  but  if 
lO 


>\i 


II 


146 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


.H 


R 


,   , 


;  ? 


j- 


the  unknown  benefactor  should  pay  in  the  six  thousand  he 
promised  within  the  next  few  weeks,  then  Cyril  could  repay 
himself  from  that  hypothetical  fortune.  On  the  other  hand, 
Guy  didn't  disguise  fvom  himself  the  strong  probability  that 
the  unknown  benefactor  might  now  refuse  to  pay  in  the  six 
thousand.  In  that  case,  Guy  said  to  himself,  with  a  groan,  he 
would  take  to  the  diamond-fields,  and  never  rest  day  or  night 
in  his  self-imposed  task  till  he  had  made  enough  to  repay  Cyril 
in  full  the  missing  three  thousand,  and  to  make  up  the  other 
three  thousand  he  still  owed  the  creditors  of  the  Rio  Negro 
Company;  after  which  he  would  return  and  give  himself  up 
like  a  man,  to  stand  his  trial  voluntarily  for  the  crime  he  had 
committed. 

It  was  a  young  man's  scheme,  very  fond  and  youthful;  but 
with  the  full  confidence  of  his  age  he  proceeded  at  once  to  put 
it  in  practice.  Indeed,  now  he  came  to  think  upon  it,  he 
fancied  to  himself  he  saw  something  like  a  solution  of  the 
mystery  in  the  presence  of  the  great  Q.  C.  at  Plymouth  that 
morning.  Cyril  had  found  out  all,  and  had  determined  to  save 
time.  The  bankers  had  found  out  all,  and  had  determined  to 
prosecute.  They  had  consulted  Gildersleeve.  Gildersleeve 
had  come  down  on  a  holiday  trip,  and  run  up  against  him  at 
Plymouth  by  r  jre  accident.  Indeed,  Guy  ren-  ^mbered  now 
that  the  great  Q.  C.  looked  not  a  little  surprise  'd  excited  at 
meeting  him.  Clearly  Gildersleeve  had  comi  ..^cated  with 
the  police  at  once;  hence  the  issue  of  the  warrant.  At  the 
same  time  the  writer  of  the  letter,  whoever  he  might  be — and 
Guy  now  believed  he  was  sent  down  by  Cyril,  or  in  Cyril's 
interest — the  writer  had  found  out  the  facts  betimes,  and  had 
taken  a  passage  for  him  in  the  name  of  Billington.  Uncertain 
as  he  felt  about  the  minor  details,  Guy  was  sure  this  interpre- 
tation must  be  right  in  the  main.  For  Elma's  sake — for  the 
honor  of  the  family — Cyril  wished  him  for  the  present  to  disap- 
pear.    Cyril's  wish  was  sacred.     He  would  go  to  South  Africa. 

The  great  point  was  now  to  avoid  meeting  Gildersleeve  be- 
fore the  ship  sailed.  So  he  would  pay  his  bill  quietly,  put  his 
things  in  his  portmanteau,  stop  in  his  room  till  dusk,  and  then 
drive  off  in  a  close  cab  to  the  landing-stage. 

But,  first  of  all,  he  must  send  the  three  thousand  direct  to 
Cyril. 

He  sat  down,  in  a  fit  of  profound  penitence,  and  penned  a 
heart-broken  letter  of  confession  to  his  brother. 


I; 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


147 


It  was  vague,  of  course;  such  letters  are  always  vague.  No 
man,  even  in  confessing,  likes  to  allude  in  plain  terms  to  the 
exact  nature  of  the  crime  he  has  committed;  and  besides,  Guy 
took  it  for  granted  that  Cyril  knew  all  about  the  main  features 
of  the  case  already.  He  didn't  ask  his  brother  to  forgive  him, 
he  said;  he  didn't  try  to  explain,  for  explanation  would  be  im- 
possible. How  he  came  to  do  it,  he  had  no  idea  himself.  A 
sudden  suggestion — a  strange,  unaccountable  impulse — a 
minute  or  two  of  indecision — and  almost  before  he  knew  it, 
under  the  spell  of  that  strange  eye,  the  thing  was  done,  irre- 
trievably done  forever.  The  best  he  could  offer  now  was  to 
express  his  profound  and  undying  regret  at  the  wrong  he  had 
committed,  and  by  which  he  had  never  profited  himself  a  single 
farthing.  Nevitt  had  deceived  him  with  incredible  meanness; 
he  could  never  have  believed  any  man  would  act  as  Nevitt  had 
acted.  Nevitt  had  stolen  three  thousand  pounds  of  the  sum, 
and  applied  them  to  paying  off  his  own  debt  to  the  Rio  Negro 
creditors.  The  remaining  three  thousand,  sent  herewith,  Guy 
had  recovered,  almost  by  a  miracle,  from  that  false  creature's 
grasp,  and  he  returned  them  now,  in  proof  of  the  fact,  in  Mon- 
tague Nevitt's  own  pocket-book,  which  Cyril  would  no  doubt 
immediately  recognize.  For  himself,  he  meant  to  leave  Eng- 
land at  once,  at  least  for  the  present.  Where  he  was  going  he 
wouldn't  as  yet  let  Cyril  know.  He  hoped  in  a  new  country 
to  recover  his  honor  and  rehabilitate  his  name.  Meanwhile, 
it  was  mainly  for  Cyril's  sake  that  he  fled — and  for  one  other 
person's  too — to  avoid  a  scandal.  He  hoped  Cyril  would  be 
happy  with  the  woman  of  his  choice;  for  it  was  to  insure  their 
joint  happiness  that  he  was  accepting  the  offer  of  escape  so 
unexpectedly  tendered  him. 

He  sealed  up  the  letter — that  incriminating  letter,  that 
might  mean  so  much  more  than  he  ever  put  to  it — and  took 
it  out  to  the  post,  with  the  three  thousand  pounds  and  Mon- 
tague Nevitt's  pocket-book  in  a  separate  packet.  Proud 
Kelmscott  as  he  was  by  birth  and  nature,  he  slunk  through 
the  streets  like  a  guilty  man,  fancying  all  eyes  were  fixed 
suspiciously  upon  him.  Then  he  returned  to  the  liolel  in 
a  burning  heat,  went  into  the  smoking-room  on  purpose 
like  an  honest  man,  and  rang  the  bell  for  the  servant 
boldly. 

"  Bring  my  bill,  please,"  he  said  to  the  waiter  who  answered 
it.    "  I  go  at  seven  o'clock." 


I 


I         >! 


i^ 


148 


WHAT  3  BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


•*  Yes,  sir,"  the  waiter  replied,  with  official  promptitude. 
"  Directly,  sir.    What  number  ? " 

"  I  forget  the  number,"  Guy  answered,  with  a  beating 
heart;  "bat  the  name's  Billington." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  the  waiter  responded  once  more  in  the  self-same 
unvaried  tone,  and  went  off  to  the  office. 

Guy  waited  in  profound  suspense,  half-expecting  the  waiter 
to  come  back  for  the  number  again;  but  to  his  immense  sur- 
prise and  mystification,  t^e  fellow  didn't.  Instead  of  that,  he 
returned  some  minuttis  later,  all  respectful  attention,  bringing 
the  bill  Oil  a  salver,  duly  headed  and  lettered,  "  Mr.  Billington, 
number  40."  In  unspeakable  trepidation,  Guy  paid  it  and 
walked  av»ay.  Never  before  in  all  his  life  had  he  been  sur- 
rounded so  close  on  every  side  by  a  thick  hedge  of  impene- 
trable and  inexplicable  mystery. 

Then  a  new  terror  seized  him.  Was  he  running  his  head 
into  a  noose,  blindfold  ?  Who  was  the  Billington  he  was  thus 
made  to  personate,  and  who  must  really  be  staying  at  the  very 
same  time  in  the  Duke  of  Devonshire  ?  Was  this  just  another 
of  Nevitt's  wily  tricks  ?  Had  he  induced  his  victim  to  accept 
without  question  the  name  and  character  of  some  still  more 
open  criminal  ? 

There  was  no  time  now,  however,  to  draw  back  or  to  hesitate. 
The  die  was  cast;  he  must  stand  by  its  arbitrament.  He  had 
decided  to  go,  and  on  that  hasty  decision  had  acted  in  a  way 
that  was  practically  irrevocable.  He  put  his  things  together 
with  trembling  hands,  called  a  cab  by  the  porter,  and  drove 
otf  alone,  in  a  turmoil  of  doubt,  to  the  landing-stage  in  the 
harbor. 

Policemen  not  a  few  were  standing  about  on  the  pier  and  in 
the  streets  as  he  drove  past  openly;  but  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  a  warrr.nt  had  been  issued  for  his  apprehension,  none  of 
th^m  took  the  slightest  apparent  notice  of  him.  He  wondered 
much  at  this;  but  there  was  really  no  just  cause  for  wonder, 
fo;  at  least  an  hour  earlier  the  police  had  ceased  to  look  out 
aiy  longer  for  Nevitt's  murderer;  and  the  reason  they  had 
Jane  so  was  simply  this:  a  telegram  had  corns  down  from 
Scotland  Yard  in  the  most  positive  terms,  "  War'ng  arrested 
this  afternoon  at  Dover.  The  murdered  man  McGregor  is  now 
certainly  known  to  be  Montague  Nevitt,  a  bank  clerk  in  Lon- 
don, Endeavor  to  trace  Waring's  line  of  retreat  from  Mam- 
bury  to  Dover  by  inquiry  of  the  railway  officials.  We  arc  sure 


I 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


149 


of  our  man.  Photographs  will  be  forwarded  you  by  post 
immediately." 

And  as  a  matter  of  fact,  at  the  very  moment  when  Guy  was 
driving  down  to  the  tender,  in  order  to  escape  from  an  imagi- 
nary charge  of  forgery,  his  brother  Cyril,  to  his  own  immense 
astonishment,  was  being  conveyed  from  Dover  pier  to  Tavi- 
stock, under  close  police  escort,  on  a  warrant  charging  him 
with  the  willful  murder  of  Montague  Nevitt,  two  days  before, 
at  Mambury,  in  Devon. 

If  Guy  had  only  known  that,  he  would  never  have  fled;  but 
he  didn't  know  it.  How  could  he,  indeed,  in  his  turmoil  and 
hurry?  He  didn't  even  know  Montague  Nevitt  was  dead.  He 
had  been  too  busy  that  day  to  look  at  the  papers.  And  the  few 
facts  he  knew  from  the  boy's  crying  in  the  street  he  naturally 
misinterpreted,  by  the  light  of  his  own  fears  and  personal  dan- 
gers. He  thought  he  was  "  wanted "  for  the  yet  undis- 
covered forgery,  not  for  the  murder,  of  which  he  was  wholly 
ignorant. 

Nevertheless,  we  can  never  in  this  world  entirely  escape  our 
own  personality.  As  Guy  went  on  board,  believing  himself  to 
have  left  his  identity  on  shore,  he  heard  somebody,  in  a  voice 
that  he  fancied  he  knew,  ask  a  newsboy  on  the  tender  for  an 
evening  paper.  Guy  was  the  only  passenger  who  embarked  at 
Plymouth;  and  this  person  unseen  was  the  newsboy's  one 
customer. 

Guy  couldn't  discover  who  he  was  at  the  moment,  for  the 
call  for  a  paper  cfime  from  the  upper  deck;  he  only  heard  the 
voice,  and  wasn't  certain  at  first  that  he  recognized  even  that 
any  more  than  in  a  vague  and  indeterminate  reminiscence.  No 
doubt  tne  sense  of  guilt  ma  .e  him  preternaturally  suspicious; 
but  he  began  to  fear  that  somebody  might  possibly  recognize 
h  m.  And  he  had  bought  t^  e  paper  with  news  about  the  war- 
•  ant.  7'hat  was  bad;  but  'twas  too  late  to  draw  back  again 
now.  The  tender  lay  alongside  awhile,  discharging  herniaiL-, 
and  then  cast  loose  to  go.  The  Cetewayo's  screw  began  to  move 
through  the  water.  With  a  dim  sense  of  horror,  Guy  knew  they 
were  olf.     He  was  well  under  way  for  far-distant  South  Africa. 

But  he  did  7Wt  know  or  reflect  that  while  he  plowed  his 
path  on  over  that  trackless  sea,  day  after  day,  without  news 
from  England,  there  would  be  ample  time  for  Cyril  to  be  tried, 
and  found  guilty,  and  perhaps  hanged  as  well,  for  the  crime 
that  neither  of  them  had  really  committed. 


T 


150 


what's  bred  im  the  bone. 


K 


i 


i  ^ 


H    '1 


( 


; 


lil 


f. 


' 


; 


/i; 


,'  ( 


■J 
I- 


The  great  ship  steamed  out,  cutting  the  waves  with  her  prow, 
and  left  the  harbor-lights  far,  far  behind  her.  Guy  stood  on 
deck  and  watched  them  disappearing  with  very  mingled  feel- 
ings. 

Everyt  .ing  had  been  so  hurried,  he  hardly  knew  himself  as 
yet  how  his  flight  affected  all  the  active  and  passive  charac- 
ters in  this  painful  drama.  He  only  knew  he  was  irrevocably 
committed  to  the  voyage  now.  There  would  be  no  chance  of 
turning  till  they  reached  Cape  Town,  or  at  the  very  least 
Madeira. 

He  stood  on  deck  and  looked  back.  Somebody  else  in  an 
ulster  stood  not  far  off,  near  a  light  by  the  saloon,  conversing 
with  an  officer.  Guy  recognized  at  once  the  voice  of  the  man 
who  had  asked  in  the  harbor  for  an  evening  paper.  At  that 
moment  a  steward  came  up  as  he  stood  there,  on  the  lookout 
for  the  new  passenger  they'd  just  taken  in.  "You're  in  thirty- 
two,  sir,  I  think,"  he  said,  "and  your  name — " 

"Is  Billington,"  Guy  answered,  with  a  faint  tremor  of 
shame  at  the  continued  falsehood. 

The  man  who  had  bought  the  paper  turned  round  sharply 
and  stared  at  him.  Their  eyes  met  in  one  quick  flash  of 
unexpected  recognition.  Guy  started  in  horror.  This  was 
an  awful  meeting.  He  had  seen  the  man  but  once  before  in 
his  life,  yet  he  knew  him  at  a  glance.  It  was  Granville 
Kelmscott. 

For  a  minute  or  two  they  stood  and  stared  at  one  another 
blankly,  those  unacknov/ledged  half-brothers,  of  whom  one 
now  knew,  while  the  other  still  ignored,  the  real  relationship 
that  existed  between  them.  Then  Granville  Kelmscott  turned 
away  without  one  word  of  greeting.  Guy  trembled  in  his 
shame.  He  knew  he  was  discovered.  But  before  his  very 
eyes,  Granville  took  the  paper  he  had  been  reading  by 
that  uncertain  light,  and  raising  it  high  in  his  hand,  flung  it 
over  into  the  sea  with  spasmodic  energy.  It  was  the  special 
edition  containing  the  account  of  the  man  McGregor's  death 
and  Guy  Waring's  supposed  connection  with  the  murder. 
Granville  Kelmscott,  indeed,  couldn't  bring  himself  to 
denounce  his  own  half-brother.  He  stared  at  him  coldly  for 
a  second  with  a  horrified  face. 

Then  he  said,  in  a  very  low  and  distant  voice,  "  I  know 
your  identity,  Mr.  Billington,"  with  a  profoundly  sarcastic 
accent  on  the  assumed  name,  "  and  I  will  not  betray  it.    I 


I    1 


jhat's  bred  in  the  bone. 


151 


know  your  secret,  too;  and  I  will  keep  that  inviolate.  Only, 
during  the  rest  of  this  voyage,  do  me  the  honor,  I  beg  of  you, 
not  to  recognize  me  or  speak  to  me  in  any  way  at  any  time." 
Guy  slunk  away  in  silence  to  his  own  cabin.  Never  before 
in  his  life  had  he  known  such  shame.  He  felt  that  his  pun- 
ishment was  indeed  too  heavy  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XXVn. 


of 


SOMETHING    TO   THEIR   ADVANTAGE. 

At  Tilgate  and  Chetwood  next  morning  two  distinguished 
households  were  thrown  into  confusion  by  the  news  in  the 
papers.  To  Colonel  Kelmscott  and  to  Elma  Clifford  alike 
that  news  came  with  crushing  force  and  horror.  A  murder, 
.said  the  TimeSy  had  been  committed  in  Devonshire,  in  a 
romantic  dell  on  the  skirts  of  Dartmoor.  No  element  of 
dramatic  interest  was  wanting  to  the  case;  persons,  place,  and 
time  were  all  equally  remarkable.  The  victim  of  the  outrage 
was  Mr.  Montague  Nevitt,  confidential  clerk  to  Messrs. 
Drummond,  Coutts  &  Barclay,  the  well-know  bankers,  and 
himself  a  familiar  figure  in  musical  society  in  London.  The 
murderer  was  presumably  a  young  journalist,  Mr.  Guy  Waring, 
not  unknown  himself  in  musical  circles,  and  brother  of  that 
rising  landscape  painter,  Mr.  Cyril  Waring,  whose  pictures  of 
wild  life  in  forest  scenery  had  lately  attracted  considerable 
attention  at  the  Academy  and  the  Grosvenor,  Mr.  Guy 
Waring  had  been  arrested  the  day  before  on  the  pier  at  Dover, 
where  he  had  just  arrived  by  the  Ostend  packet.  It  was  sup- 
posed by  the  police  that  he  had  hastily  crossed  the  Channel 
from  Plymouth  to  Cherbourg,  soon  after  the  murder,  to  escape 
detection,  and  after  journeying  by  cross-country  routes 
through  France  and  Belgium,  had  returned  via  Ostend  to  the 
shores  of  England.  It  was  a  triumphant  vindication  of  our 
much-maligned  English  detective  system  that  within  a  few 
hours  after  the  discovery  of  the  body  on  Dartmoor,  the  sup- 
posed criminal  should  have  been  recognized,  arrested,  and 
detained,  among  a  thousand  others,  in  a  busy  port,  at  the  very 
opposite  extremity  of  Southern  England. 

Colonel  Kelmscott  that  day  was  strangely  touched,  even 


W4 


what's  bred  in  the  rone. 


i     . 


3 


11  V 


i 


I 
I       ^ 

i     V 


(I 


M 


before  he  took  up  his  morning  paper.  A  letter  from  Granville, 
posted  at  Plymouth,  had  just  reached  him  by  the  early  mail, 
to  tell  him  that  the  only  son  he  had  ever  really  loved  or  cared 
for  on  earth  had  sailed  the  day  before,  a  disinherited  outcast, 
to  ceek  his  fortune  in  the  wild  wastes  of  Africa.  How  he 
could  break  the  news  to  Lady  Emily  he  couldn't  imagine. 
The  Colonel,  twisting  his  white  mustache  with  a  quivering 
hand  on  his  tremulous  lip,  hardly  dared  to  realize  what  their 
future  would  seem  like.  And  then — he  turned  to  the  paper, 
and  saw  to  his  horror  this  awful  tale  of  a  cold-blooded  and 
cowardly  murder,  committed  on  a  friend  by  one  who,  however 
little  he  might  choose  to  acknowledge  it,  was,  after  all,  his  own 
eldest  son,  a  Kelmscott  of  Tilgate  as  much  as  Granville  him- 
self, in  lawful  wedlock  duly  begotten. 

The  proud  but  broken  man  gazed  at  the  deadly  announce- 
ment in  blank  amaze  and  agony.  His  Nemesis  had  come. 
Guy  Waring  was  his  own  son;  and  Guy  Waring  was  a 
murderer. 

He  tried  to  argue  with  himself  at  first  that  this  tragic  result 
in  some  strange  way  justified  him,  after  the  event,  for  his  own 
long  neglect  of  his  paternal  responsibilities.  The  young  man 
was  no  true  Kelmscott  at  heart,  he  was  sure,  or  such  an  act  as 
that  would  have  revolted  and  appalled  him.  He  was  no  true 
son  in  reality;  his  order  disowned  him.  Base  blood  flowed  in 
his  veins,  and  made  crimes  like  these  conceivable. 

"  I  was  right,  after  all,"  the  Colonel  thought,  "  not  to 
acknowledge  these  half-low-born  lads  as  the  heirs  of  Tilgate. 
Bad  blood  will  out  in  the  end — and  tMs  is  the  result  of  it." 

And  then,  with  sudden  revulsion,  he  thought  once  more — 
God  help  him!  How  could  he  say  such  things  in  his  heart 
even  now  of  /ter,  his  pure,  trustful  Lucy?  She  was  better  than 
him  in  her  soul,  he  knew — ten  thousand  times  better.  If  bad 
blood  came  in  anywhere,  it  came  in  from  himself,  not  from 
that  simple-hearted,  innocent  little  country-bred  angel. 

And  perhaps  if  he'd  treated  these  lads  as  he  ought,  and 
brought  them  up  to  their  own,  and  made  them  Kelmscotts 
indeed,  instead  of  nameless  adventurers,  they  might  never 
have  fallen  into  such  abysses  of  turpitude.  But  he  had  let 
them  grow  up  in  ignorance  of  their  own  origin,  with  the  vague 
stain  of  a  possible  illegitimacy  hanging  over  their  heads  ;  and 
what  wonder  if  they  forgot  in  the  end  how  noblesse  oblige,  and 
sunk  at  last  into  foul  depths  of  vice  and  criminality  ? 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


153 


As  he  read  on  his  head  swam  with  the  cumulative  evidence 
of  that  deliberately  planned  and  cruelly  executed,  yet  brutal, 
murder.  The  details  of  the  crime  gave  him  a  sickening  sense 
of  loathing  and  incredulity.  Impossible  that  his  own  son 
could  have  schemed  and  carried  out  so  vile  an  attack  upon  a 
helpless  person,  who  had  once  been  his  nearest  and  dearest 
companion.  And  yet  the  account  in  the  paper  gave  him  no 
alternative  but  to  believe  it.  Nevitt  and  Guy  Waring  had 
been  inseparable  friends.  They  had  dined  together,  supped 
together,  played  duets  in  their  own  rooms,  gone  out  to  the 
same  parties,  belonged  to  the  same  club,  in  all  things  been 
closer  than  even  the  two  twin  brothers.  Some  quarrel  seemed 
to  have  arisen  about  a  matter  of  speculations,  in  which  both 
had  suffered.  They  separated  at  once — separated  in  anger. 
Nevitt  went  down  to  Devonshire  by  himself  for  his  holiday. 
Then  Waring  followed  him,  without  any  pretense  at  conceal- 
ment; inquired  for  him  at  the  village  inn  with  expressions  of 
deadly  hate;  tracked  him  to  a  lonely  place  in  the  adjacent 
woods;  choked  him,  apparently,  with  some  form  of  garrote 
or  twisted  rope — for  the  injuries  seemed  greater  than  even 
the  most  powerful  man  could  possibly  inflict  with  the  hands 
alone — and  hid  the  body  of  his  murdered  friend,  at  last,  in  a 
mossy  dell  by  the  bank  of  the  streamlet.  Nor  was  that  all; 
for  with  callous  effrontery  he  had  returned  to  the  inn,  still 
inquiring  after  his  victim;  and  had  gone  off  next  morning 
early  with  a  lie  on  his  lips,  pretending  even  then  to  nurse  his 
undying  wrath,  and  to  be  bent  on  following  up,  with  coarse 
threats  of  revenge,  his  stark  and  silent  enemy. 

So  far,  the  Times.  But  to  Colonel  Kelmscott,  reading  in 
between  the  lines  as  he  went,  there  was  more  in  it  than  even 
that.  He  saw,  though  dimly,  some  hint  of  a  motive.  For  it 
was  at  Mambury  that  all  these  things  had  taken  place;  and 
it  was  at  Mambury  that  the  cecret  of  Guy  Waring's  descent 
lay  buried,  as  he  thought,  in  the  parish  registers.  What  it 
all  meant.  Colonel  Kelmscott  couldn't  indeed  wholly  under- 
stand; but  many  things  he  knew  which  the  writer  of  the 
account  in  the  Times  knew  not.  He  knew  that  Nevitt  was  a 
clerk  in  the  bank  where  he  himself  kept  his  account,  and  to 
which  he  had  given  orders  to  pay  in  the  six  thousand  to  Cyril's 
credit  at  Cyril's  banker's.  He  knew,  therefore,  that  Nevitt 
might  thus  have  been  led  to  suspect  the  real  truth  of  the 
case  as  to  the  two  so-called  Warings.     He  knew  that  Cyril 


I 


\  , 


«  il 

s 


i  ■ 


w 


154 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


V 

I' 


/ 


^■h 


.: 


<,  I 


had  just  received  the  six  thousand.  Trying  to  put  these  facts 
together  and  understand  their  meaning,  he  utterly  failed;  but 
this  much,  at  least,  was  clear  to  him,  he  thought — the  reason 
for  the  murder  was  something  connected  with  a  search  for 
the  entry  of  his  own  clandestine  marriage. 

He  looked  down  at  the  paper  again.  Great  heavens!  what 
was  this?  "It  is  rumored  that  a  further  inducement  to  the 
crime  may  perhaps  be  sought  in  the  fact  that  the  deceased 
gentleman  had  a  large  sum  of  money  in  his  possession  m 
Bank  of  England  notes  at  the  time  of  his  death.  These  notes 
he  carried  in  a  pocket-book  about  his  person,  where  they  were 
seen  by  the  landlord  of  the  Talbot  Arms,  at  Mambury,  the 
night  before  the  supposed  murder.  When  the  body  was  dis- 
covered by  the  side  of  the  brook  two  days  later,  the  notes 
were  gone.  The  pockets  were  carefully  searched  by  order  of 
the  police,  but  no  trace  of  the  missing  money  could  be  dis- 
covered. It  is  now  conjectured  that  Mr.  Guy  Waring,  who  is 
known  to  have  lost  heavily  in  the  Rio  Negro  Diamond  Mines, 
may  have  committed  the  crime  from  purely  pecuniary  motives, 
in  order  to  release  himself  from  his  considerable  and  very 
pressing  financial  embarrassments." 

The  paper  dropped  from  Colonel  Kelmscott's  hands.  His 
eyes  ceased  to  see.  His  arm  fell  rigid.  This  last  horrible 
suggestion  proved  too  much  for  him  to  bear.  He  shrunk  from 
it  like  poison.  That  a  son  of  his  own,  unacknowledged  or 
not,  should  be  a  criminal — a  murderer-"Was  terrible  enough; 
but  that  he  should  even  be  suspected  of  having  committed 
murder  for  such  base  and  vulgar  motives  as  mere  thirst  of 
gain,  was  more  than  the  blood  of  the  Kelmscotts  could  put  up 
with.  The  unhappy  father  had  said  to  himself  in  his  agony, 
at  first,  that  if  Guy  really  killed  that  prying  bank  clerk  at  all, 
it  was  no  doubt  in  defense  of  his  mother's  honor.  T/ia/  was  a 
reason  a  Kelmscott  could  understand.  That,  if  not  an  excuse, 
was  at  least  a  palliation.  But  to  be  told  he  had  killed  him 
for  a  roll  of  bank-notes — oh,  horrible,  incredible!  his  reason 
drew  back  at  it.  That  was  a  depth  to  which  the  Kelmscott 
idiosyncracy  could  never  descend.  The  Colonel,  in  his  horror, 
refused  to  believe  it. 

He  put  his  hands  up  feebly  to  his  throbbing  brow.  This 
was  a  ghastly  idea  —  a  ghastly  accusation.  The  man  called 
Waring  had  dragged  the  honor  of  the  Kelmscotts  through  the 
mud  of  the  street.    There  was  but  one  comfort  left.    He 


ill 


what's  bred  in  the  bcne. 


156 


never  bore  that  unsullied  name.  Nobody  would  know  he  was 
a  Kelmscott  of  Tilgate. 

The  Colonel  rose  from  his  seat  and  staggered  across  the 
floor.  Half-way  to  the  door  he  reeled  and  stopped  short. 
The  veins  of  his  forehead  were  black  and  swollen.  He  had 
the  same  strange  feeling  in  his  head  as  he  experienced  on  the 
day  when  Granville  left — only  a  hundred  times  worse.  The  two 
halves  of  his  brain  were  opening  and  shutting.  His  temples 
seemed  too  full;  he  fancied  there  was  something  wrong  w'J(\ 
his  forehead  somewhere.  He  reeled  once  more  like  a  drunken 
man.  Then  he  clutched  at  a  chair  and  sat  down.  His  brain 
was  flooded. 

He  collapsed  all  at  once,  mumbling  to  himself  some  inarticu- 
late gibberish.  Half  an  hour  later,  the  servants  came  in  and 
found  him.  He  was  seated  in  his  chair,  still  doddering  feebly. 
The  house  was  roused.  A  doctor  was  summoned,  and  the  Col- 
onel put  to  bed.  Lady  Emily  watched  him  with  devoted  care. 
But  it  was  all  in  vain.  The  doctor  shook  his  head  the  moment 
he  examined  him.  "A  paralytic  stroke,"  he  said,  gravely; 
"  and  a  very  serious  one.  He  seems  to  have  had  a  slighter 
attack  some  time  since,  and  to  have  wholly  neglected  it.  A 
great  blood-vessel  in  the  brain  must  have  given  way  with  a 
rush.     I  can  hold  out  no  hope.     He  won't  live  till  morning." 

And,  indeed,  as  it  turned  out,  about  ten  that  night  the 
Colonel's  loud  and  stentorious  breathing  began  to  fail  slowly. 
The  intervals  grew  longer  and  longer  between  each  recurrent 
gasp,  and  life  died  away  at  last  in  imperceptible  struggles. 

By  two  in  the  morning,  Kelmscott  of  Tilgate  lay  dead  on 
his  bed;  and  his  two  unacknowledged  and  unrecognized  sons 
were  the  masters  of  his  property. 

But  one  of  them  was  at  that  moment  being  tossed  about 
wildly  on  the  waves  of  Biscay;  and  the  other  was  locked  up 
on  a  charge  of  murder  in  the  county  jail  at  Tavistock,  in 
Devonshire. 

Meanwhile,  at  the  other  house  at  Chetwood,  where  these 
tidings  were  being  read  with  almost  equal  interest,  Elma 
Clifford  la'd  down  the  paper  on  the  table  with  a  very  pale 
face,  and  looked  at  her  mother.  Mrs.  Clifford,  all  solicitous 
watchfulness  for  the  effect  on  Elma,  looked  in  return  with 
searching  eyes  at  her  daughter.  Then  Elma  opened  her  lips 
like  one  who  talks  in  her  sleep,  and  spoke  out  twice  in  two 
short,  disconnected  sentences.    The  first  time  she  said  simply, 


I   1 


15a 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


"  He  didn't  do  it,  I  know,"  and  the  second  time,  with  all  the 
intensity  of  her  emotional  nature,  "  Mother,  mother,  whatever 
turns  up,  I  mast  go  there." 

"  He  will  be  there,"  Mrs.  Clifford  interposed,  after  a  painful 
pause. 

And  Elma  answered  dreamily,  with  her  great  eyes  far  away, 
"Yes,  of  course,  I  know  he  will;  and  I  must  be  there,  too, 
to  see  how  far,  if  at  all,  I  can  help  them." 

"  Yes,  darling,"  her  mother  replied,  stroking  her  daughter's 
hair  with  a  caressing  hand.  She  knew  that  when  Elma  spoke 
in  a  tone  like  that,  no  power  on  earth  could  possibly  restrain 
her. 


ii 


CHAPTER  XXVHI. 


MISTAKEN    IDENTITY. 

To  Cyril  Waring  himself  the  arrest  at  Dover  came  as  an 
immense  surprise;  rather  a  surprise,  indeed,  than  a  shock  just 
at  first,  for  he  could  only  treat  it  as  a  mistaken  identity.  The 
man  the  police  wanted  was  Guy,  not  himself;  and  that  Guy 
should  have  done  it  was  clearly  incredible. 

As  he  landed  from  the  Ostend  packet,  recalled  to  England 
unexpectedly  by  the  announcement  that  the  Rio  Negro 
Diamond  Mines  had  gone  with  a  crash — and  no  doubt  involved 
Guy  in  the  common  ruin — Cyril  was  astonished  to  find  him- 
self greeted  on  the  Admiralty  Pier  by  a  policeiiian,  who 
tapped  him  on  the  shoulder  with  the  casual  remark,  "  I  think 
your  name's  Waring." 

Cyril  answered  at  once,  "Yes,  my  name's  Waring." 

It  didn't  occur  to  him  at  the  moment  that  the  man  meant 
to  arrest  him. 

"  Then  you're  wanted,"  the  minion  of  authority  answered, 
seizing  his  arm,  rather  gruffly.  "We've  got  a  warrant  out 
to-day  against  you,  my  friend.  You'd  better  come  along  with 
me  quietly  to  the  station." 

"A  warrant!"  Cyril  repeated,  amazed,  shaking  off  the  man's 
hand.     "  There  must  be  some  mistake  somewhere." 

The  policeman  smiled.  "  Oh,  yes,"  he  answered,  briskly, 
with  some  humor  in  his  tone;  "there's  always  a  mistake,  of 
course,  in  all  these  arrests.    You  never  get  a  hold  of  the  right 


:t 


n 


^ 


WHAT  S   BRED    IN    THE    BONE. 


157 


man  just  at  first.  It's  sure  to  be  a  case  of  his  twin  brother. 
But  there  ain't  no  mistake  this  time,  don't  you  fear.  I  knowed 
you  at  once,  when  I  see  you,  by  your  photograph,  though  we 
were  looking  out  for  you,  to  be  sure,  going  the  other  way; 
but  it's  you  all  right;  there  ain't  a  doubt  about  that.  War- 
rant in  the  name  of  Guy  Waring,  gentleman;  wanted  for  the 
willful  murder  of  a  man  unknown,  said  to  be  one  McGregor, 
alias  Montague  Nevitt,  on  the  27th  instant,  at  Mambury,  in 
Devonshire." 

Cyril  gave  a  sudden  start  at  the  conjunction  of  names, 
which  naturally  increased  his  captor's  suspicions.  "  But 
there  is  a  mistake,  though,"  he  said,  angrily,  "  even  on  your 
own  showing.  You've  got  the  wrong  man.  It's  not  I  that 
am  wanted.  My  name's  Cyril  Waring,  and  Guy  is  my  broth- 
er's. Though  Guy  can't  have  murdered  Mr.  Nevitt,  either,  if 
it  comes  to  that;  they  were  most  intimate  friends.  However, 
that's  neither  here  nor  there.  I'm  Cyril,  not  Guy;  I'm  not 
your  prisoner." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  are,  though,"  the  officer  answered,  holding  his 
arm  very  tight,  and  calling  mutely  for  assistance  by  a  glance 
at  the  other  policemen.  "  I've  got  your  photograph  in  my 
pocket  right  enough.  Here's  the  man  we've  orders  to  arrest  at 
once.    I  suppose  you  wont  deny,  now,  that's  your  living  image? " 

Cyril  glanced  at  the  photograph  with  another  start  of 
surprise.  Sure  enough,  it  was  Guy;  his  last  new  cabinet 
portrait.  The  police  must  be  acting  under  some  gross  mis- 
apprehension. 

"  That  man's  my  brother,"  he  said,  confidently,  brushing  the 
photograph  aside.  "I  can't  understand  it  at  all.  This  is 
extremely  odd.  It's  impossible  my  brother  can  even  be  sus- 
pected of  committing  murder." 

The  policeman  smiled  cynically.  "Well,  it  ain't  impossible 
your  brother's  brother  can  be  suspected,  anyhow,"  he  said,  with 
a  quiet  air  of  superior  knowledge.  "  The  good  old  double 
trick's  been  tried  on  once  too  often.  If  I  was  you,  I  wouldn't 
say  too  much.  Whatever  you  say  may  be  used  as  evidence  at 
the  trial  against  you.  You  just  come  along  quietly  to  the 
station  with  me — take  his  other  arm,  Jim;  that's  right;  no 
violence,  please,  prisoner — and  we'll  pretty  soon  find  out 
whether  you're  the  man  we've  got  orders  to  arrest,  or  his  twin 
brother."  And  he  winked  at  his  ally.  He  was  proud  of  hav- 
ing effected  the  catch  of  the  season. 


•    I 


168 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


i 

i!i 


"But  I  am  his  twin  brother,"  Cyril  said,  half-struggling 
still  to  release  himself.  "  You  can't  take  me  up  on  that  war- 
rant, I  tell  you.  It's  not  my  name.  I'm  not  the  man  you've 
orders  to  look  for." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  the  constable  answered,  as  before, 
with  an  incredulous  smile!  "  Don't  you  go  trying  to  obstruct 
the  police  in  the  exercise  of  their  duty.  If  I  can't  take  you  up 
on  the  warrant  as  it  stands,  well,  anyhow,  I  can  arrest  you  on 
suspicion,  all  the  same,  for  looking  so  precious  like  the  photo- 
graph of  the  man  as  is  wanted.  Twin  brothers  ain't  got  any 
call,  don't  you  know,  to  sit,  turn  about,  for  one  another's  photo- 
graphs. It  hinders  the  administration  of  justice;  that's  where 
it  is.  And  remember,  whatever  you  choose  to  say  may  be  used 
as  evidence  at  the  trial  against  you." 

Thus  adjured,  Cyril  yielded  at  last  to  force  majeure,  and 
walked  arm  in  arm  between  the  two  policemen,  followed  by  a 
large  and  admiring  crowd,  to  the  nearest  station. 

But  the  matter  was  far  less  easily  arranged  than  at  first 
imagined.  An  innocent  man  who  knows  his  own  innocence, 
taken  up  in  a  mistake  for  a  brother  whom  he  believes  to  be 
equally  incapable  of  the  crime  with  which  he  is  charged, 
naturally  expects  to  find  no  difficulty  at  all  in  proving  his 
identity  and  escaping  from  custody  on  a  false  charge  of  mur- 
der. But  the  result  of  a  hasty  examination  at  the  station  soon 
effectually  removed  this  little  delusion.  His  own  admission 
that  the  photograph  was  a  portrait  of  Guy,  and  his  resem- 
blance to  it  in  every  leading  particular,  made  the  authorities 
decide  on  the  first  blush  of  the  thing  this  was  really  the 
man  Scotland  Yard  was  in  search  of.  He  was  trying  to 
escape  them  on  the  ridi^'ilous  pretext  that  he  was  in  point 
of  fact  his  own  twin  brother.  The  inspector  declined  to 
let  him  go  for  the  night.  He  wasn't  going  to  repeat  the 
mistake  that  was  made  in  the  Lefroy  case,  he  said,  very 
decidedly.  He  would  send  the  suspected  person  under  escort 
to  Tavistock. 

So  to  Tavistock  Cyril  wf^t,  uncertain  as  yet  what  all  this 
could  mean,  and  ignorant  of  the  crime  with  v'.iich  he  was 
charged,  if  indeed  any  crime  had  been  really  committed.  All 
the  way  down,  an  endless  string  of  questions  suggested  them- 
selves one  by  one  to  his  excited  mind.  Was  Nevitt  really 
dead?  And  if  so,  who  had  killed  him?  Was  it  suicide  to 
escape  from  the  monetary  embarrassments  brought  about  by 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


159 


this 
was 

All 
lem- 
jally 
e  to 

by 


the  failure  of  the  Rio  Negro  Diamond  Mines,  or  was  it  acci- 
dent or  mischance?  Or  was  it,  in  fact,  a  murder?  And  in 
any  case— strangest  of  all — where  was  Guy?  Why  didn't 
Guy  come  forward  and  court  inquiry?  For  as  yet,  of  course, 
Cyril  hadn't  received  his  brother's  letter,  with  the  incriminat- 
ing pocket-book  and  the  three  thousand  pounds;  nor,  indeed, 
for  several  days  after,  as  things  turned  out,  was  there  even  a 
possibility  of  his  ever  receiving  it. 

Next  morning,  however,  when  Cyril  was  examined  before 
the  Tavistock  magistrates,  he  began  to  realize  the  whole 
strength  of  the  case  against  him.  The  proceedings  were 
purely  formal,  as  the  lawyers  said;  yet  they  were  quite  enough 
to  make  Cyril's  cheek  turn  pale  with  horror.  One  witness 
after  another  came  forward  and  swore  to  him.  The  station- 
master  at  Mambury  gave  evidence  that  he  had  made  inquiries 
on  the  platform  after  Nevitt  by  name;  the  innkeeper  deposed 
as  to  his  excited  behavior  when  he  called  at  the  Talbot  Arms, 
and  his  recognition  of  McGregor  as  the  person  he  was  in 
search  of;  the  boy  of  whom  Guy  had  inquired  at  the  gate 
unhesitatingly  set  down  the  conversation  to  Cyril.  None  of 
them  had  the  faintest  doubt  in  his  own  mind  (each  swore)  that 
the  prisoner  before  the  magistrates  was  the  self-same  person 
who  went  over  to  Mambury  on  that  fatal  day,  and  who  followed 
Montague  Nevitt  down  the  path  by  the  river. 

As  Cyril  listened,  one  terrible  fact  dawned  clearer  and  clearer 
upon  his  brain.  Every  fragment  of  evidence  they  piled  up 
against  himself  made  the  case  against  Guy  look  blacker  and 
blacker. 

The  magistrates  accepted  the  proofs  thus  tendered,  and 
Cyril,  as  yet  unassisted  by  professional  advice,  was  remanded 
accordingly  till  next  morning. 

Just  as  he  was  about  to  leave  the  Sessions  House  in  a  tumult 
of  horror,  fear,  and  suspense,  somebody  close  by  tapped  him 
on  the  shoulder  gravely,  after  a  few  whispered  words  with  the 
chairman  and  the  magistrates.  Cyril  turned  round,  and  saw 
a  burly  man  with  very  large  hands,  whom  he  remembered  to 
have  had  pointed  out  to  him  in  London,  and,  strange  to  say, 
by  Montague  Nevitt  himself,  as  the  eminent  Q.  C,  Mr.  Gilbert 
Gildersleeve. 

The  great  advocate  was  pale,  but  very  sincere  and  earnest. 
Cyril  noticed  his  manner  was  completely  changed.  It  was 
clear  some  overmastering  idea  possessed  his  soul. 


fl 


160 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE    BONE. 


.   I 


"  Mr.  Waring,"  he  said,  looking  him  full  in  the  face,  "  I  see 
you're  unrepresented.  This  is  a  case  in  which  I  take  a  very 
deep  interest.  My  conduct's  unprofessional,  I  know  —  point- 
blank  against  all  our  recognized  etiquette — but  perhaps  you'll 
excuse  it.  Will  you  allow  me  to  undertake  your  defense  in 
this  matter?" 

Cyril  turned  round  to  him  with  truly  heartfelt  thanks.  It 
was  a  great  relief  to  him,  alone  and  in  doubt,  and  much  won- 
dering about  Guy,  to  hear  a  friendly  word,  from  whatever 
quarter. 

And  Cyril  knew  he  was  safe  in  Gilbert  Gildersleeve's  hands; 
the  greatest  criminal  lawyer  of  the  day  in  England  might 
surely  be  trusted  to  set  right  such  a  mere  little  error  of  mis- 
taken identity.  Though  for  Guy — whenever  Guy  gave  him- 
self up  to  the  police — Cyril  felt  the  position  was  far  more 
dangerous.  He  couldn't  believe,  indeed,  that  Guy  was  guilty; 
yet  the  circumstances,  he  could  no  longer  conceal  from  him- 
self, looked  terribly  black  against  him. 

"  You're  too  good,"  he  cried,  taking  the  lawyer's  hand  in  his 
with  very  fervent  gratitude.  "  How  can  I  thank  you  enough? 
I'm  deeply  obliged  to  you." 

"Not  at  all,"  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  answered,  with  very 
blanched  lips.  He  was  ashamed  of  his  duplicity,  "  You've 
nothing  to  thank  me  for.  The  case  is  a  simple  one,  and  I'd 
like  to  see  you  out  of  it.  I've  met  your  brother;  and  the 
moment  1  saw  you  I  knew  you  weren't  he,  though  you're  very 
like  him.     I  should  know  you  two  apart  wherever  I  saw  you." 

"  That's  curious,"  Cyril  cried,  "  for  very  few  people  know 
us  from  one  another,  e.  ',ept  the  most  intimate  friends." 

The  Q.  C.  looked  at  him  with  a  very  penetrating  glance.  "I 
had  occasion  to  see  your  brother  not  long  since,"  he  answered, 
slowly,  "  and  his  features  and  expression  fastened  themselves 
indelibly  on  my  mind's  eye.  I  should  know  you  from  him  at 
a  glance.  This  case,  as  you  say,  is  one  of  mistaken  identity. 
That's  just  why  I'm  so  anxious  to  help  you  well  through  it." 

And,  indeed,  Gilbert  Gildersleeve,  profoundly  agitated  as  he 
was,  saw  in  the  accident  a  marvelous  chance  for  himself  to 
secure  a  diversion  of  police  attention  from  the  real  murderer. 
The  fact  was,  he  had  passed  twenty-four  hours  of  supreme 
misery.  As  soon  as  he  learned  from  common  report  that  "the 
murderer  was  caught  and  was  being  brought  to  Tavistock," 
he  took  it  for  granted  at  first  that  Guy  hadn't  gone  to  Africa 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    'J  IIK    UONE. 


101 


at  all,  but  had  left  by  rail  for  the  East,  and  been  arrested  else- 
where. That  belief  filled  him  full  of  excruciating  terrors. 
For  Gilbert  Gildersleeve,  accidental  manslaughtererashe  was, 
was  not  by  any  means  a  depraved  or  wholly  heartless  person. 
Big,  blustering,  and  gruff,  he  was  yet  in  essence  an  honest, 
kind-hearted,  unemotional  Englishman.  His  one  desire  now 
was  to  save  his  wife  and  daughter  from  further  misery;  and 
if  he  could  only  save  them,  he  was  ready  to  sacrifice  for  the 
moment,  to  a  certain  extent,  Guy  Waring's  reputation.  But 
if  Guy  Waring  himself  had  stood  before  him  in  the  dock,  he 
must  have  stepped  forward  to  confess.  The  strain  would 
have  been  too  great  for  him.  He  couldn't  have  allowed  an 
innocent  man  to  be  hanged  in  his  place.  Come  what  might,  in 
that  case  he  must  let  his  wife  and  daughter  go,  and  save  the 
innocent  by  acknowledging  himself  guilty.  So  when  he  looked 
at  the  prisoner,  it  gave  him  a  shock  of  joy  to  see  that  fortune 
had  once  more  befriended  him.  Thank  heaven!  thank  heaven! 
it  wasn't  the  man  they  wanted  at  all.  This  was  the  other 
brother  of  the  two — Cyril,  the  painter,  not  Guy,  the  journalist. 

In  a  moment  the  acute  and  experienced  criminal  hand  recog- 
nized that  this  chance  told  unconsciously  in  his  own  favor. 
Like  every  other  suspected  person,  he  wanted  time,  and  time 
would  be  taken  up  in  proving  an  alibi  for  Cyril,  as  well  as 
showing  by  concurrent  proof  that  he  was  not  his  brother. 
Meanwhile,  suspicion  would  fix  itself  still  more  firmly  upon 
Guy,  whose  flight  would  give  color  to  the  charges  brought 
against  him  by  the  authorities. 

So  the  great  Q.  C.  determined  to  take  up  Cyril  Waring's 
case  as  a  labor  of  love,  and  didn't  doubt  he  would  succeed  in 
finally  proving  it. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 
woman's  intuition. 


Next  mornmg  Cyril  Waring  appeared  once  more  in  the 
Sessions  House  for  the  preliminary  investigation  on  the  charge 
of  murder.  As  he  entered,  a  momentary  hush  pervaded  the 
room;  then  suddenly,  from  a  seat  beneath,  a  woman's  voice 
burst  forth  quite  low»  yet  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  all  the 
magistrates  on  the  bench. 

11 


!' 


162 


WHAT  S  BRKD    IN    THE    BONE. 


Hi 


.  r 


1.1 


V> 


"  Why,  n\other,"  it  said,  in  a  very  tremulous  tone,  "  it  isn't 
Guy  himself,  at  all;  don't  you  see  it's  Cyril  ?" 

The  words  were  so  involuntarily  spoken,  and  in  such  hushed 
awe  and  amaze,  that  even  the  magistrates  themselves,  hard 
Devonshire  squires,  didn't  turn  their  heads  to  rebuke  the 
speaker.  As  for  Cyril,  he  had  no  need  to  look  toward  a 
blushing  face  in  the  body  of  the  court  to  know  that  the  voice 
was  Elma  Clifford's. 

She  sat  there  lo  )king  lovelier  than  he  had  ever  before  seen 
her.  Cyril's  glance  caught  hers.  They  didn't  need  to  speak. 
He  saw  at  once  in  her  eye  that  Elma,  at  least,  knew  instinct- 
ively he  was  innocent. 

Next  numient  (lilbert  (iildersleevc  stood  up  to  state  his 
defense,  and  gi/ed  at  her  steadily.  As  he  rose  in  his  place, 
Klma's  eye  met  his.  Gilbert  Gildersleevc's  fell.  He  didn't 
know  w!iy,  but  in  that  second  of  time,  the  great  blustering 
man  felt  certain  in  his  heart  that  Elma  ClitTurd  suspected  him. 

Elma  Clifford,  for  her  part,  knew  still  more  than  that.  With 
the  swift  intuition  she  inherited  from  her  long  line  of  Oriental 
ancestry,  she  said  to  herself  at  once,  in  categorical  terms:  "  It 
was  that  man  that  did  it.  I  know  it  was  he;  and  he  sees  I 
know  it;  and  he  knows  I'm  right.  And  he's  afraid  of  me 
accordingly,"  But  an  intuition,  however  valuable  to  its  pos- 
sessor, is  not  yet  admitted  as  evidence  in  English  courts. 
Elma  also  knew  it  was  no  use  in  the  world  for  her  to  get  up 
in  her  place  and  say  so  openly. 

The  great  Q.  C,  put  his  case  in  a  nutshell.  Our  client, 
he  contended,  was  /lot  the  man  against  whom  the  warrant  in 
this  case  had  been  duly  issued;  he  was  mff  the  man  named 
Guy  Waring;  he  was  fiot  the  man  whon?  the  witnesses  deposed 
to  having  .seen  at  Mambury;  he  was  //of  the  man  who  had 
loitered  with  evil  intent  around  the  skirts  of  Dartmoor;  in 
short,  the  great  Q,  C.  observed,  with  demonstrative  eye-glass, 
it  was  a  very  clear  case  of  mistaken  identity.  It  would 
take  them  time,  no  doubt,  to  prove  the  conclusive  alibi  they 
intended  to  establish.;  for  the  gentleman  now  charged  before 
them,  he  would  hope  to  show  hereafter,  wiis  Mr.  Cyril  Waring, 
the  distinguished  painter,  twin  brofher  toMr,  Guy  Waring,  the 
journalist,  against  whom  warrant  was  issued;  and  he  was  away 
in  Belgium  during  the  whole  precise  time  when  Mr.  Guy  War- 
ing— as  to  whose  guilt  or  innocence  he  would  make  no  definite 
assertion — was  prowling  round  Dartmoor  on  the  trail  of  Mc* 


-V 


I; 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


163 


Gregor,  alias  Montague  Nevitt.  Therefore,  they  would  con- 
sent to  an  indefinite  remand  till  evidence  to  that  cfiFect  was 
duly  foi  Lhcoming.  Meanwhile — and  here  Gilbert  Gildersleeve's 
eyes  fell  upon  Elma  once  more  with  a  quiet,  forensic  smile — 
he  would  call  one  witness,  on  th<^  spur  of  the  moment,  whom 
he  hadn't  thought  till  that  very  morning  of  calling,  but  whom 
tile  magistrates  would  allow  to  be  a  very  important  one — a 
laily  from  Chetwood — Miss  Elma  Clifford. 

Klma,  taken  aback,  stood  up  in  the  box  and  gave  her  evidence 
timidly.  It  amounted  to  no  more  than  the  simple  fact  that 
the  person  before  the  magistrates  was  Cyril,  not  G^  y.  that 
the  two  brothers  were  extremely  like,  but  that  she  hau  .ea- 
son  to  know  them  easily  apart,  having  been  associate  u  in  ?  r.iost 
painful  accident  in  a  i  jnnel  with  the  brother,  the  present  Mr. 
Cyril  Waring.  What  she  said  gave  only  a  presumption  of 
mistaktn  identity,  but  didn't  at  all  invalidate  the  positive 
identification  of  all  the  people  who  had  seen  the  supposed 
murderer.  However,  from  Gilbert  Gildersleeve's  point  of 
view,  this  delay  was  doubly  valuable.  In  the  first  place,  it 
gave  him  time  to  prove  his  alibi  for  Cyril,  and  bring  witnesses 
from  lieiiiium;  and  in  the  second  place,  it  succeeded  in  still 
further  fastening  public  suspicion  on  Guy,  and  narrowing  the 
question  for  the  police  to  the  simple  issue  whether  or  not  they 
had  really  caught  the  brother  who  was  seen  at  Mambury  on 
the  day  of  the  murder. 

The  law's  delays  were  as  marvelous  as  is  their  wont.  It 
was  a  full  fortnight  before  the  barrister  was  able  to  prove  his 
point  by  bringing  over  witnesses  at  considerable  expense  from 
IJelgium  and  elsewhere,  and  by  the  aid  of  a  few  intimate 
friends  in  London,  who  could  speak  with  certainty  as  to  the 
di. 'Terence  between  the  two  brothers.  At  the  end  Oi  a  fort- 
night, however,  he  did  sufficiently  prove  it  by  tracing  Cyril  in 
detail  from  England  to  the  Ardennes  and  back  again  to  Dover, 
as  well  iiH  by  showing  exactly  how  Guy  had  been  employed  in 
London  and  elsew».*"e  on  every  day  or  night  of  the  interven- 
ing period.  The  magistrates  at  last  released  Cyril,  convinced 
by  his  arguments;  and  on  the  very  same  day  the  coroner's 
inquest  on  Montague  Nevitt's  body,  after  adjourning  time 
upon  time  to  await  the  clearing  up  of  this  initial  difficulty, 
returned  a  verdi<^t  of  willful  murder  against  Guy  Waring, 

That  evening,  in  town,  the  most  completely  mystified  person 
of  all  waa  a  certain  cashier  of  the  London  and  West  Count/ 


164 


WHAT  .i   BRED   IN    THE    BONE. 


t  {'■ 


n' 


I'- 


i. 

i- 

8*,   ' ' 

1. , 


\ 

i 


Bank,  in  Lombard  Street,  who  read  in  his  S/.  James'  this  com- 
plete proof  that  Cyril  had  been  in  Belgium  through  all  those 
days  when  he  himself  distinctly  remembered  cashing  over  the 
counter  for  him  a  check  for  no  less  a  sum  than  six  thousand 
pounds  to  "self  or  bearer."  Had  the  brothers,  then,  been 
deliberately  and  nefariously  engaged  in  a  deep-laid  scheme  (the 
cashier  asked  himself,  much  puzzled)  to  confuse  one  another's 
identity  with  great  care  beforehand,  with  a  distinct  view  to 
the  projected  murder?  For  as  yet,  of  coarse,  nobody  on  earth 
except  Guy  Waring  himself,  on  the  waters  of  Biscay,  knew  or 
suspected  anything  at  all  about  the  forgery. 

Elma  Clifford  and  her  mother,  meanwhile,  had  stopped  on 
at  Tavistock  till  Cyril  was  released  from  his  close  confinement. 
Elma  never  meant  to  marry  him,  of  course — to  that  prime 
determination  she  still  remained  firm  as  a  rock  under  all  con- 
ditions— but  in  such  straits  as  those,  why,  naturally  she  couldn't 
bear  to  be  far  away  from  him.  So  she  remained  at  Tavistock 
quietly  till  the  inquiry  was  over. 

On  the  eveiiim;  of  his  release  Elma  met  him  at  the  hotel; 
her  mother  had  gone  out  on  purpose  to  leave  them  alone. 
Elma  took  CyrilV  hand  in  hers  with  a  profound  trembling. 
She  felt  the  monirnt  for  reserve  had  long  gone  past. 

"  Cyril,"  she  said,  boldly  calling  him  by  his  Christian  name, 
because  she  could  call  him  only  as  she  always  thought  of  him, 
"  I  knew  from  the  first  you  didn't  do  it.  And  just  because  I 
know  you  didn't,  I  know  Guy  didn't  either,  though  everything 
looks  now  so  very  olack  against  him.  I  can  trust  you^  and  I 
can  trust  //////.  All  through,  I've  never  had  a  doubt  one 
moment  of  either  of  yon." 

Cyril  held  lier  hand  in  his,  and  raised  it  tenderly  to  his  lips. 
E  ma  looked  at  him  half-surprised.  Only  her  hand  !  how 
strange  of  him  !  Cyril  read  the  unspoken  thought,  as  she 
would  have  read  it  herself,  and  answered  quickly,  "  Never, 
Elma,  now,  till  Guy  has  cleared  himself  of  this  deadly  accusa- 
tion. I  couldn't  bear  to  ask  you  to  accept  a  man  whom  every- 
one else  would  call  a  murderer's  brother." 

Elma  gazed  at  him  steadfastly.  Tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 
Her  voice  trembled;  but  she  was  very  firm. 

"We  must  clear  you  and  him  of  this  dreadful  charge,"  she 
said,  slowly.  "  I  know  we  must  do  that,  Cyril.  Guy  didn't 
kill  him.  Guy's  wholly  incapable  of  it.  But  where  is  Guy 
now  ?    That's  what  I  don't  understand.    We  must  clear  that 


T 


i>'o 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


165 


all  up.  Though,  even  when  it's  cleared  up,  I  can  only /w^  you. 
iVs  I  told  you  that  day  at  Chetwood — and  I  mean  it  still — 
whatever  comes  to  us  two,  I  can  never,  never  marry  you." 

"  Not  even  if  I  clear  this  all  up  ? "  Cyril  asked,  with  a 
wistful  look. 

•'  Not  even  if  you  clear  this  all  up,"  Elma  answered,  seriously. 
"  The  difficulty's  on  my  side,  don't  you  see,  not  on  your's  at 
all.  So  far  as  you're  concerned,  Cyril,  clear  this  up  or  leave 
it  just  where  it  is,  I'd  marry  you  to-morrow.  I'd  marry  you 
at  once,  and  proud  to  do  it,  if  only  to  show  the  world  openly  I 
trust  you  both.  I  half-faltered  just  once  as  you  stood  there  in 
court,  whether  I  would  say  yes  to  you,  for  nothing  else  but 
that — to  let  everybody  see  how  implicitly  I  trusted  you." 

*'But  /couldn't  allow  it,"  Cyril  answered,  all  aglow.  "As 
:hings  stand  now,  Elma,  our  positions  are  reversed.  While 
this  cloud  still  hangs  so  black  over  Guy,  I  couldn't  find  it  in 
my  conscience  to  ask  you  to  marry  me." 

He  gazed  at  her  steadily.  They  were  both  too  profoundly 
stirred  for  tears  or  emotions.  A  quiet  despair  gleamed  in  the 
eyes  of  each.  Cyril  could  never  marry  her  till  he  had  cleared 
up  this  mystery.  Elma  could  never  marry  him,  even  if  it 
were  all  cleared  up,  with  that  terrible  taint  of  madness,  as  she 
thought  it,  hanging  threateningly  forever  over  her  and  her 
family. 

She  paused  for  a  minute  or  two,  with  her  hand  locked  in  his; 
then  she  said  once  more,  very  low*:  "No,  Guy  didn't  do  it. 
But  why  did  he  run  away?  That  baffles  me  (juite.  That's 
the  one  point  oi  it  ail  that  makes  it  so  strange  and  so  terribly 
mysterious." 

'*  Elma,"  Cyril  answered,  with  a  cold  thrill,  "I  believe  in 
Guy.  I  think  1  know  myself,  and  I  think  I  know  him,  well 
encugli  to  say  that  such  a  thing  as  murder  is  impossible  for 
either  of  us.  He's  weak  at  times,  I  admit;  and  his  will  was 
powerless  before  the  mai;netic  force  of  Montague  Nevitt's. 
But  when  I  try  to  face  that  inscrutable  mystery  of  why,  if  he's 
innocent,  he  has  run  away  from  this  charge,  I  confess  my  faith 
begins  to  falter  and  tremble.  He  must  have  seen  it  in  the 
papers.  He  must  have  seen  I  was  accused.  What  can  he 
mean  by  leaving  mc  to  bear  it  ni  his  stead,  without  ever 
coming  forward  to  help  me  fairly  out  of  it?" 

Elma  looked  up  at  iiim  with  another  of  her  sudden  flashes 
of  coyerb  intuitioa.     "  He  catit  have  seen  it  in  the  papers." 


166 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


she  said.  "  That  gives  us  some  clew.  If  he'd  seen  it,  he  must 
have  come  forward  to  help  you.  But,  Cyril,  my  faith  never 
falters  at  all;  and  I  tell  you  why.  Not  only  do  I  know  Guy 
didn't  do  it,  but  I  know  who  did  it.  The  man  who  murdered 
Montague  Nevitt  is — why  shouldn't  I  tell  you? — Mr.  Gilbert 
Gildersleeve." 

Cyril  started  back,  astonished.  "  Oh,  Elma,  why  do  you 
think  so?"  he  cried,  in  amazement,  "What  possible  reason 
can  you  have  for  saying  so?" 

"  None,"  Elma  answered,  with  a  calmly  resigned  air.  "  I 
only  know  it;  I  know  it  from  his  eyes.  I  looked  in  them  once 
and  read  it  like  a  book.  But  of  course  that's  nothing.  What 
we  must  do  now  is  to  try  and  find  out  the  facts.  I  looked  in 
his  eyes  and  saw  it  at  a  glance;  and  I  saw  he  saw  it.  I.^e 
knows  I've  discovered  him." 

Cyril  half  drew  away  from  her  with  a  faint  sense  of  alarm. 
"Elma,"  he  said,  slowly,  "I  believe  in  Guy;  but  really  and 
truly,  I  can't  quite  believe  that.  You  make  your  intuition  tell 
you  far  too  much.  In  your  natural  anxiety  to  screen  my 
brother,  you've  fixed  the  guilt,  without  proof,  upon  another 
innocent  man.  I'm  sure  Mr.  Gildersleeve's  as  incapable  as 
Guy  of  any  sui  h  action." 

"  And  I'm  sure  of  it,  too,"  Elma  answered,  with  the  instinct- 
ive ceitainty  of  feminine  conviction;  "but  still  I  know,  for 
all  that,  he  did  it.  Perhaps  it  was  all  done  in  a  moment  of 
haste;  but  at  least  he  did  it,  and  nothing  on  earth  that  any- 
body could  say  will  ever  make  me  believe  he  didn't." 

When  Mrs.  Clifford  came  back  to  the  hotel,  an  hour  later, 
she  scanned  her  (laughter's  face  with  a  keen  glance  of  inquiry. 

"Well,  he  says  he  W'>n't  ask  you  again,*' she  murmured, 
laying  Elma's  head  on  her  shoulder,  "till  this  case  is  cleared 
up,  and  Guy  is  proved  innocent." 

"  Yes,"  Elma  answered,  nestling  close,  and  looking  red  as  a 
ro.se.  "He  knows  very  well  Guy  didn't  do  it,  but  he  wants  all 
the  rest  of  the  world  to  acknowledge  it  also." 

"And  you  know  who  did  it?"  Mrs.  Clifford  said,  with  a 
tentative  air. 

••Yes,  mother.     Do  you?" 

"Of  co!irse  I  do,  darling;  but  it'll  never  be  proved  against 
///w,  you  may  be  sure.  saw  it  at  a  glance.  It's  Mr.  Gilbert 
Gildersleeve." 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


167 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


FRESH    DISCOVERIES. 

As  Cyril  drove  home  from  Waterloo  next  day,  to  his  lonely 
rooms  in  Staple  Inn,  Holborn,  he  turned  aside  with  his  cab 
for  a  few  minutes  to  make  a  passing  call  at  the  bank  in  Lom- 
bard Street.  He  was  short  of  ready  money,  and  wanted  to 
cash  a  check  for  fifty  pounds  for  expenses  incurred  in  his 
defense  at  Tavistock. 

The  cashier  stared  at  him  hard;  then,  without  consulting 
anybody,  he  said,  in  a  somewhat  embarrassed  tone,  "  I  don't 
know  whether  you're  aware  of  it,  Mr.  Waring,  but  this  over- 
draws your  current  account.  We  haven't  fifty  pounds  on  our 
books  to  your  credit." 

He  was  well  posted  on  the  subject,  in  fact,  for  only  that 
morning  he  had  hunted  up  Cyril's  balance  in  the  ledger  at  his 
.side  for  the  gratification  of  his  own  pure  personal  curiosity. 

Cyril  .stared  at  him  in  astonishment.  In  this  age  of  sur- 
prises, one  more  surprise  was  thus  suddenly  sprung  upon  him. 
His  first  impulse  was  to  exclaim  in  a  very  amazed  voice, 
"Why,  I've  six  thousand  odd  pounds  to  my  credit,  surely; " 
but  he  checked  himself  in  time  with  a  violent  effort.  How 
could  he  tell  what  strange  things  might  have  happened  in  his 
absence  ?  If  the  money  was  gone,  and  Nevitt  was  murdered, 
and  Guy  in  hidhig,  who  could  say  what  fre:^h  complications 
might  not  still  be  in  store  for  him  ?  So  he  merely  answered, 
with  a  strenuous  endeavor  to  suppress  his  agitation,  "Will 
you  kindly  let  me  have  my  balance-sheet,  if  you  please?  I — 
ur — I  thought  I'd  more  money  than  that  still  left  with  you." 

The  cashier  brought  out  a  big  book  and  a  bundle  of  checks, 
which  he  handed  to  Cyril,  with  a  face  of  profound  interest. 
To  him,  too,  this  little  drama  was  pregnant  with  mystery  and 
personal  implications.  Cyril  turned  the  vouchers  over,  one 
by  one,  with  close  attention,  recognizing  the  signature  and 
occasion  of  each,  till  he  arrived  at  last  at  a  big  check  which 
staggered  him  sadly  for  a  moment.  He  took  it  up  in  his 
hands  and  examined  it  in  the  light.  "  Pay  Self  or  Bearer 
Six  Thousand  Pounds  (^^6,000),  Cyril  Waring." 


il 


108 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


i  * 


w  I 


Oh,  horrible,  horrible!  This,  then,  was  the  secret  of  Guy's 
sudden  disappearance. 

He  didn't  cry  aloud.  He  didn't  say  a  word.  He  looked 
at  the  thing  hard,  and  knew  in  a  moment  exactly  what  had 
happened.  Guy  had  forged  that  check;  it  was  Guy's  natural 
hand,  written  forwaid  like  Cyril's  own,  instead  of  backward, 
as  usual.  And  no  one  but  himself  could  possibly  have  told  it 
from  his  own  true  signature.  But  Cyril  knew  it  at  once  for 
Guy's  by  one  infallible  sign — a  tiny  sign  that  might  escape 
the  veriest  expert — some  faint  hesitation  about  the  tail  of  the 
capital  Cy  which  was  shorter  in  Guy's  hand  than  Cyril  ever 
made  it,  and  which  Guy  had  therefore  deliberately  lengthened, 
by  an  effort  or  an  afterthought,  to  complete  the  imitation. 

"  You  cashed  that  check  yourself,  sir,  over  the  counter,  you 
remember,"  the  cashier  said,  quietly,  "  on  the  date  it  was 
drawn  on." 

Cyril  never  altered  a  muscle  of  his  rigid  face. 

Ah,  quite  so,"  he  answered,  in  a  very  dry  voice,  not  daring 
to  contradict  the  man.  He  knew  just  what  had  happened, 
(iuy  must  have  come  to  get  the  money  himself,  and  the  cashier 
must  have  mistaken  him  for  the  proper  ov/ner  of  the  purloined 
six  thousand — they  were  so  very  much  alike;  nobody  ever 
distinguished  them. 

"And  that  was  one  of  the  days,  I  think,  when  you  proved 
the  alibi  in  Belgium  before  the  Devonshire  magistrates  at 
Tavistock,  yesterday,"  the  clerk  went  on,  with  a  searching 
glance.  Cyril  started  this  time.  He  saw  in  a  second  the  new 
danger  thus  sprung  upon  him.  If  the  cashier  chose  to  press 
the  matter  home  to  the  hilt,  he  must  necessarily  arrive  at  one 
or  other  of  two  results— either  the  alibi  would  break  down 
altogether,  or  it  would  be  perfectly  clear  that  Guy  had  com- 
mitted a  forgery. 

"  So  it  seems,"  he  answered,  looking  his  keen  interlocutor 
straight  in  the  eyes.  '*  So  it  seems,  I  should  say,  by  the  date 
on  the  face  of  it." 

But  the  cashier  did  not  care  to  press  the  matter  home  any 
further;  and  for  a  very  good  reason.  It  was  none  of  his  busi- 
ness to  suggest  the  idea  of  a  forgery,  after  a  check  had  been 
presented  and  duly  cashed,  if  the  customer  to  whose  account 
it  was  debited  in  course  chose  voluntarily  to  accept  the  respon- 
sibility of  honoring  it.  The  objection  should  come  first  from 
the  customer's  side.     If  //f  didn't  care  to  press  it,  then  neither 


!■;*' 


WHAT  S  I5RKD   IN   THE  BONE. 


10)9 


did  the  cashier.  Why  should  he,  indeed  ?  Why  saddle  his 
firm  with  six  thousand  pounds  loss?  He  would  only  get  him- 
self into  trouble  for  having  failed  to  observe  the  discrepancy  in 
the  signatures,  and  the  difference  between  the  brothers.  That, 
after  all,  is  what  a  cashier  is  for.  If  he  doesn't  fulfill  those 
first  duties  of  his  post,  why,  what  on  earth  can  be  the  good  of 
him  to  anybody  in  any  way? 

The  two  men  looked  at  one  another  across  the  counter  with 
a  strong,  inscrutable  stare  of  mutual  suspicion.  Then  Cyril 
slowly  tore  up  the  check  he  had  tendered  for  fifty  pounds, 
filled  in  another  for  his  real  balance  of  twenty-two,  handed  it 
across  to  the  clerk  without  another  word,  received  the  cash  in 
white,  trembling  hands,  and  went  out  to  his  cab  again  in  a 
turmoil  of  excitement. 

All  the  way  back  to  his  rooms  in  Staple  Inn,  one  seething 
idea  possessed  his  soul.  His  faith  in  Ciuy  was  beginning  to 
break  down;  and  with  it,  his  faith  in  himself  almost  went. 
The  man  was  his  own  brother — his  very  counterpart,  he 
knew;  could  he  really  believe  him  capable  of  committing  a 
murder?  Cyril  looked  within,  and  said  a  thousand  times  no; 
he  looked  at  that  forged  check,  and  his  heart  misgave  him. 

At  Staple  Inn,  the  housekeeper  who  took  care  of  their  joint 
rooms  came  out  to  greet  him  with  no  small  store  of  tears  and 
lamentations.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Cyril,"  she  cried,  seizing  both  his 
hands  in  hers  with  a  tremulous  welcome,  "  I'm  glad  to  see  you 
back,  and  to  know  you're  innocent.  I  always  said  you  never 
could  have  done  it;  no,  no,  not  you;  nor  yet  Mr.  Guy  neither. 
The  police  has  been  here  time  and  again  to  search  the  rooms, 
but,  the  Lord  be  praised,  they  never  found  anything!  And 
I've  got  a  letter  for  you,  too,  from  Mr.  Guy  himself;  but  there — 
I  locked  it  up  till  you  come  in  my  own  cupboard  at  home,  for  fear 
of  the  detectives;  and  now  you're  back  and  safe  in  London 
again,  I'll  run  home  this  minute,  round  the  corner,  and  get  it." 

Cyril  sat  down  in  the  familiar  easy-chair,  holding  his  face 
in  his  hands,  and  gazed  about  him  blankly.  Such  a  home- 
coming as  this  was  inexpressibly  terrible  to  him. 

In  a  few  minutes  more  the  housekeeper  came  back,  bring- 
ing in  her  hands  Guy's  letter  from  Plymouth. 

Cyril  sat  for  a  minute  and  looked  at  the  envelope  in  deadly 
silence;  then  he  motioned  the  housekeeper  out  of  the  room 
with  one  quivering  hand.  Before  that  good  woman's  face  he 
couldn't  open  it  and  read  it. 


w 


170 


WHAI'S   likKI)   IN   THE  DONE. 


I 


;|; 


As  soon  as  she  was  gone,  he  tore  it  apart,  trembling.  As 
he  rend  and  read,  the  suspicion  within  him  deepened  quicicly 
into  a  doubt,  the  doubt  into  a  conviction,  tlie  conviction  into 
a  certainty.  He  clapped  his  hand  to  his  head.  Oh,  God! 
what  was  this?  duy  acknowledged  his  own  guilt!  He  con- 
fessed he  had  done  ill 

Cyril's  last  hope  was  gone.     Ouy  himself  admitted  it! 

"  How  1  came  to  do  it,"  the  letter  said,  *•  I've  no  idea 
inysi'lt".  A  su(kl.,n  suggestion— a  strange,  unaccountable 
impulse — a  prompting,  as  u  were,  pressed  upon  me  from  with- 
out, and  abnost  beft)re  1  knew,  the  crime  was  committed." 

Cyril  bent  his  head  low  upon  his  knees  with  shame.  He 
never  could  hold  up  that  head  henceforth.  No  further  doubt 
or  hcsilation  remained.  He  knew  the  whole  truth,  (luy  was 
indeed  a  murilerer. 

He  steeled  himself  for  the  worst,  and  read  the  letter  through 
with  a  superhuman  effort,  it  almost  choked  him  to  read. 
The  very  coii sccutiveuess  and  coherency  of  the  sentences 
seemed  all  but  incredible  unde»such  awful  circumstances.  A 
murderer,  reil-handed,  to  speak  of  his  crime  so  calmly  as  that! 
And  then,  too,  this  undying  anger  expressed  and  felt,  even 
after  death,  against  his  victim,  Nevitt!  Cyril  couldn't  under- 
stand how  any  man — least  of  all  his  own  brother — could  write 
such  words  about  the  murdered  man  whose  body  was  then 
lying  all  silent  and  cold,  under  the  open  sky,  among  the 
bracken  at  Mambury. 

And  once  more,  this  awful  clew  of  the  dead  man's  pocket- 
book!  Those  accursed  notes!  That  hateful  sum  of  money! 
How  could  Guy  venture  to  speak  of  it  all  in  such  terms  as 
those — the  one  palpable  fact  that  indubitably  linked  him  with 
that  cold-blooded  murder.  "  The  three  thousand  sent  here- 
with 1  recovered,  almost  by  a  miracle,  from  that  false  creat- 
ure's grasp,  under  e.xtraordinary  circumstances,  and  1  return 
them  now,  in  proof  of  the  fact,  in  Montague  Nevitt's  own 
pocket-book,  which  I'm  sure  you'll  recognize  as  soon  as  you 
look  at  it." 

Cyril  saw  it  all  now  beyond  a  shadow  of  a  doubt.  He 
reconstructed  the  whole  sad  tale.  He  was  sure  he  understood 
it;  but  to  understand  it  was  hardly  even  yet  to  believe  it. 
Guy  had  lost  heavily  in  the  Rio  Negro  Mines,  as  the  prosecu- 
tion declared;  in  an  evil  hour  he'd  been  cajoled  into  forging 
Cyril's  name  for  six  thousand.    Montague  Nevitt  had  in  some 


r  - 


WHAT  S    nRED    IN    THR   BONE. 


171 


way  misappropriated  tiie  stolen  sum.  Guy  liad  pursued  him 
in  a  sudden  white-heat  of  fury,  had  come  up  with  him 
unawares,  had  killed  him  in  his  rajje,  and  now  calmly  returned 
as  much  as  he  could  recover  of  that  fateful  and  twice-stolen 
money  to  Cyril.  It  was  all  too  horrible,  but  all  too  true.  In 
a  wild  ferment  of  remorse  for  his  brother's  sin,  the  unhappy 
painter  sat  down  at  once  and  penned  a  letter  of  abject  selt- 
humiliation  to  KIma  Clifford. 

•'  Klma — I  said  to  you  last  night  that  I  could  never  marry 
you  till  I  had  clearly  proved  my  l)rr)thcr  (iuy's  innocence. 
Well,  I  said  what  I  can  never  conceivably  do.  Since  return- 
injjf  to  town  I  received  a  letter  from  (iuy  himself.  What  it 
contained  I  must  never  tell  you,  for  Cuy's  own  sake.  IJut 
what  I  must  tell  you  is  this:  1  can  never  again  see  you. 
Cuy  and  I  are  so  nearly  one,  in  every  nerve  and  fibre  of  our 
being,  that  whatever  he  may  have  done  is  to  me  almost  as  if  1 
myself  had  done  it.  Yf)u  will  know  how  terrible  a  thini^  it  is 
for  me  to  write  these  words,  but  for  your  .sake  I  can't  refrain 
from  writing  them.  Think  no  more  of  me.  I  am  not  worthy 
ot  you.     1  will  think  oi you  as  long  as  I  live. 

"  Your  ever  devoted  and  heart-broken 

"Cyril." 

Me  folded  the  letter  and  sent  it  off  to  the  temporary  address 
At  the  West-End  where  F^lma  had  told  him  that  she  and  her 
mother  would  spend  the  night  in  London.  Very  late  that 
evening  a  ring  came  at  the  bell.  Cyril  ran  to  the  door.  It 
was  a  boy  with  a  telegram.  He  opened  it,  and  read  it  with 
breathless  excitement: 

"Whatever  Cuy  may  have  said,  you  are  quite  mistaken. 
There's  a  mystery  somewhere.  Keep  his  letter  and  show 
it  to  me.  I  may  perhaps  be  able  to  unravel  the  tangle.  I'm 
more  than  ever  convinced  that  what  1  said  to  you  last  night 
was  perfectly  true.     We  will  save  him  yet.     Unalterably, 

Elma." 

But  the  telegram  brought  little  peace  to  Cyril.  Of  what 
value  were  Elma's  vague  intuitions  now,  by  the  side  of  Guy's 
own  positive  confession }  With  his  very  own  hand  Guy  ad- 
mitted that  he  hu'l  done  it.  Cyril  went  to  bed  that  night  the 
unhappiest,  loneliest  man  in  London.  What  Guy  was,  he  was. 
He  felt  himself  almost  like  the  actual  murderer. 


w 


m 


what's  bred  in  TH£  BONB. 


!^ 


1 1 


I 
J 


I 


i.^ 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

"  GOLDEN    JOYS." 

The  voyage  to  the  Cape  was  long  and  tedious.  On  the 
whole  way  out,  Guy  made  but  few  friends,  and  talked  very 
little  to  his  fellow-passengers.  That  unhappy  recognition  by 
Granville  Kelmscotv,  the  evening  he  went  on  board  the  Ce/^- 
liuiyo,  poisoned  the  fugitive's  mind  for  the  entire  passage.  He 
felt  himself,  in  fact,  a  moral  outcast;  he  slunk  away  from  his 
kind;  he  hardly  dared  to  meet  Kelmscott's  eyes,  for  shame, 
whenever  he  passed  him.  lUit  for  one  thing,  at  least,  he  was 
truly  grateful.  Though  Kelmscott  had  evidently  discovered 
from  the  papers  the  nature  of  Guy's  crime,  and  knew  his  real 
name  well,  it  was  clear  he  had  said  nothing  of  any  sort  on  the 
subject  to  the  other  passengers.  Only  one  man  on  board  was 
aware  of  his  guilt,  Guy  believed,  and  that  one  man  he  shunned 
accordingly  as  far  as  was  iiossiblc  within  the  narrow  limits  of 
the  saloon  and  the  quan     -deck. 

Granville  Kelmscott,  of  course,  took  a  very  different  view  of 
Guy  Waring's  position.  He  had  read  in  the  paper  he  bought 
at  Plymouth  that  Guy  was  the  murderer  of  Montague  Nevitt. 
Regarding  him,  therefore,  as  a  criminal  of  the  de^.pest  dye 
now  flying  from  justice,  he  wasn't  at  all  surprised  at  Guy's 
shrinking  and  shunning  him;  what  astonished  him,  rather,  was 
the  man's  occasional  and  incredible  fits  of  effrontery.  How 
that  fellow  could  ever  laugh  and  talk  at  all  among  the  ladies 
on  deck — with  the  hangman  at  his  back — simply  appalled  and 
horrified  the  proud  soul  of  a  Kelm'^(■ott.  Granville  had  hard 
work  to  keep  from  expressing  his  horror  openly  at  times;  but 
still,  with  an  effort,  he  kept  his  peace.  With  the  picture  of 
his  father  and  Lady  Emily  now  strong  before  his  mind,  he 
couldn't  find  it  in  his  heart  to  bring  his  own  half-brother, 
however  guilty  and  criminal  the  man  might  be,  to  the  foot  of 
the  gallows. 

So  they  voyaged  on  together  without  once  interchanging  a 
single  word,  all  the  way  from  Plymouth  to  the  Cape  Colony. 
And  the  day  they  landed  at  Port  Elizabeth,  it  was  an  ii.*^nite 
relief  indeed  to  Guy  to  think  he  could  now  get  well  away 


WHAT  b  BRED  IN   IHK   BuNE. 


173 


forever  from  that  fe'low  Kelmscott.  Not  being  by  any  means 
overburdened  with  ready  cash,  however,  Guy  determined  to 
waste  no  time  in  the  coastwise  towns,  but  to  make  his  way  at 
once  bi>ldly  up  country  toward  Kimberley.  The  railway  ran 
then  only  as  far  as  Grahamstown;  the  rest  of  his  journey  to 
the  South  African  (iolconda  was  accomplished  by  road,  in  a 
two-wlieeled  cart,  drawn  by  four  small  liorscs,  which  rattled 
alonji  w  th  a  will,  up  hill  and  down  dale,  over  the  precarious 
highways  of  that  serai-civilized  upland. 

To  Ciuy,  just  fresh  from  ICngland  and  the  monotonous  sea, 
there  was  u  certain  exhilaration  in  this  first  hasty  glimpse  of 
the  inlinite  luxuriance  of  sub-tropical  nature.  At  times  he 
almost  forgot  Montague  Nevitt  and  the  forgery  in  the  bound- 
less sense  of  freedom  and  novelty  given  him  by  those  vast 
wastes  of  rolling  table-land,  thickly  covered  with  grass  or  low, 
thorny  acacias,  and  stretching  inimitably  away  in  low  range 
after  rang^e  to  the  blue  mountains  in  the  distance.  It  was 
strange  indeed  to  him,  on  the  wild  plains  thiough  which  they 
scurried  in  wild  haste,  to  see  the  springbok  rush  away  from  the 
doubtful  track  at  the  first  whirr  of  their  wheels,  or  the  bolder 
bustard  stand  and  gaze  among  the  long  grass  with  his  wary  eye 
turned  sideways  to  look  at  them.  Guy  felt  for  the  moment  he 
had  left  Europe  and  its  reminiscences  now  fairly  behind  him; 
in  this  free,  new  world,  he  was  free  once  more  himself;  his 
shame  was  cast  aside;  he  could  revel  like  the  antelopes  in  the 
immensity  of  a  land  where  nobody  knew  him  and  he  knew 
nobody. 

What  added  most  of  all,  however,  to  this  quaint,  new  sense 
of  vastness  and  freedom  was  the  occasional  appearance  of 
naked  blacks  roaming  at  large  through  the  burnt-up  fields,  of 
w'  jh  until  lately  thty  had  been  undisputed  possessors.  Day 
,u  -T  day,  Guy  drove  on  along  the  uncertain  roads,  past  queer 
outlying  tov/ns  of  white  wooden  houses — Craddock,  and  Mid- 
dleburg,  and  Colesburg,  and  others — till  they  crossed,  at  last, 
the  boundary  of  Orange  River  into  the  Free  State,  and  halted 
for  awhile  in  the  main  street  of  Philippolis. 

It  was  a  dreary  place.  Guy  began  now  to  see  the  other  side 
of  South  Africa.  Though  he  had  left  England  in  autumn, 
it  was  spring-time  at  the  Cape,  and  the  winter  drought  had 
parched  up  all  the  grass,  leaving  the  bare  red  dust  in  the 
roads  or  streets  as  dry  and  desolate  as  the  sand  of  the  desert. 
The  town  itself  consisted  of  some  sixty  melancholy  and  dis- 


174 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


,( 


V 


ji 

i 


tressful  houses,  bare,  square,  and  flat-roofed,  standing  unen- 
closed along  a  dismal  high-road,  and  with  that  congenitally 
shabby  look,  in  spite  of  their  newness,  which  seems  to  belong 
by  nature  to  all  southern  buildings.  Some  stagnant  pools 
alone  remained  to  attest  the  presence,  after  rain,  of  a  roaring 
brook,  the  pits  in  whose  dried- up  channel  they  now  occupied; 
over  their  tops  hung  the  faded  foliage  of  a  few  dust-laden 
trees,  struggling  hard  for  life  with  the  energy  of  despair 
against  depressing  circumstances.  It  was  a  picture  that  gave 
Ciuy  a  sudden  attack  of  pessimism;  if  ////s  was  the  El  Dorado 
toward  which  he  was  going,  he  earnestly  wished  himself  back 
again  once  more,  forgery  or  no  forgery,  among  the  breezy 
green  fields  of  dear  old  England. 

On  to  Fauresmith  he  traveled,  with  less  comfort  than 
before,  in  a  rickety  buggy  of  most  primitive  construction, 
designed  to  meet  the  needs  of  rough  mountain  roads,  and  as 
innocent  of  springs  as  Ciuy  himself  of  the  murder  of  Montague 
Nevitt.  It  was  a  wretched  drive.  The  drought  had  now 
broken;  the  wet  season  had  begun;  rain  fell  heavily.  A 
piercing,  cold  wind  blew  down  from  the  nearer  mountains, 
and  Guy  began  to  feel  still  more  acutely  than  ever  that 
South  Africa  was  by  no  means  an  earthly  paradise.  As  he 
drove  on  and  on,  this  feeling  deepened  upon  him.  Huge  blocks 
of  stone  obstructed  the  rough  road,  intersected  as  it  was  by  deep 
cart-wheel  ruts,  down  which  the  rain-water  now  flowed  in  im- 
promptu torrents.  The  Dutch  driver,  too,  anxious  to  show  the 
mettle  of  his  coarse-limbed  steeds,  persisted  in  dashing  over 
the  hummofiky  ground  at  a  break-neck  pace,  while  Guy  bal- 
anced himself  with  difficulty  on  the  narrow  seat,  hanging  on 
to  his  portmanteau  for  dear  life,  among  the  jerks  and  jolts, 
till  his  fingers  were  numbed  with  cold  and  exposure. 

They  held  out  against  it  all,  before  the  pelting  rain,  till  man 
and  beast  were  well-nigh  exhausted.  At  last,  about  three- 
quarters  of  the  way  to  Fauresmith,  on  the  bleak,  bare  hill- 
tops, sleety  snow  began  to  fall  in  big  flakes,  and  the  barking 
of  a  dog  was  heard  in  the  distance.  The  Boer  driver  pricked 
up  his  ears  at  the  sound. 

"That  must  a  house  be,"  he  remarked  in  his  Dutch  pigeon- 
English  to  Guy;  and  Guy  felt  in  his  soul  that  the  most  miser- 
able and  filthy  of  Kaffir  huts  would  just  then  be  a  welcome 
sight  to  his  weary  eyes.  He  would  have  given  a  sovereign, 
indeed,  from  the  scanty  store  he  possessed,  for  a  night's  lodg- 


what's  prrd  in  the  nONE. 


175 


ing  in  a  cunvenient  dug-kennel.  He  was  agreeably  surprised, 
therefore,  to  find  it  was  a  comfortable  farm-house,  where  the 
lights  in  the  casement  beamed  forth  a  cheery  welcome  on 
the  wet  and  draggled  wayfarers  from  real  glass  windows.  The 
farmer  within  received  them  hospitably,  business  was  brisk 
to-day.  Another  traveler,  he  said,  had  just  gone  on  toward 
I'auresmith. 

"A  young  man  like  yourself,  fresh  from  England,"  the  farmer 
observed,  scanning  (luy  closely,  "lie's  oft  to  the  diamond- 
diggings.     1  think  to  Dutoitspan." 

Ciuy  rested  the  night  there,  thinking  nothing  of  the  stranger, 
and  went  on  next  day  more  quietly  to  Kauresmith.  'i'hence  to 
the  diamond-fields,  the  country  became  at  each  step  more 
sombre  and  more  monotonous  than  ever.  In  the  afternoon 
they  rested  at  Jacobsdal,  another  dusty,  dreary,  comfortless 
place,  consisting  of  about  five  and  twenty  bankrupt  houses 
scattered  in  bare  clumps  over  a  scorched-up  desert;  then  on 
again  next  day  over  a  drearier  and  ever  drearier  expanse  of 
landscape.  It  was  ghastly.  It  was  horrible.  At  last,  on  the 
top  of  a  dismal  hill  range,  looking  down  on  a  deep  dale,  the 
driver  halted.  In  the  vast  flat  below,  a  dull,  dense  fog  seemed 
to  envelop  the  world  in  inscrutable  m  sts.  The  driver  pointed 
to  it  with  his  demonstrative  whip. 

•'  Down  yonder,  he  said,  encouragingly,  as  he  put  the  skid  on 
his  wheel  —  "down  yonder's  the  diamond-fields;  that's 
Dutoitspan  before  you." 

"What  makes  it  so  gray?"  Guy  asked,  looking  in  front  of 
him  with  a  sinking  heart.  This  first  view  of  his  future  home 
was  by  no  means  encouraging. 

"Oh,  the  sand  make  it  be  like  that,"  the  driver  answered, 
unconcernedly.  "Diamond-fields  all  make  up  of  fine  red  sand; 
and  diggers  pile  it  about  around  their  own  claims.  Then  the 
wind  comes  and  blow,  and  make  sand-storm  always  around 
Dutoitspan." 

Cf  uy  groaned  inwardly.  This  was  certainly  not  the  El  Dorado 
of  his  fancy.  They  descended  the  hill,  at  the  same  break- 
neck pace  as  before,  and  entered  the  miserable  mushroom  town 
of  diamond-grubbers.  Amidst  the  huts  in  the  diggings  great 
heaos  of  red  earth  lay  piled  up  everywhere.  Dust  and  sand 
rose  high  on  the  hot  breeze  into  the  stifling  air.  As  they 
reached  the  encampment — for  Dutoitspan  then  was  little 
more  than  a  camp — the  blinding  mists  of  solid  red  particles 


176 


what's   bred    in     1  UK    BONE. 


i:  I 


(■     I.  , 


drove  so  thick  in  their  eyes  that  Guy  could  hardly  see  a  few 
yards  before  him.  Their  clothes  and  faces  were  literally  en- 
crusted in  thick  coats  of  dust.  The  fine  red  mist  seemed  to 
pervade  everything.  It  filled  their  eyes,  their  nostrils,  their 
ears,  their  mouths.  They  breathed  solid  dust.  The  air  was 
laden  deep  with  it. 

And  this  was  the  diamond-fields.  This  was  the  Golconda 
where  Guy  was  to  find  six  thousand  pounds  ready  made  co 
recover  his  losses  and  to  repay  Cyril.  Oh,  horrible,  horrible! 
His  heart  sunk  low  at  it. 

And  still  they  went  on,  and  on,  and  on,  and  on  through  the 
mist  of  dust  to  the  place  for  out-spanning.  Guy  only  shared 
the  common  fate  of  all  new-comers  to  "the  fields"  in  feeling 
much  distressed  and  really  ill.  The  very  horses  in  the  cart 
snorted  and  sneezed  and  showed  their  high  displeasure  by 
trying  every  now  and  then  to  jib  and  turn  back  again.  Here 
and  there,  on  either  side,  to  right  and  left,  where  the  gloom 
l)ermitted  it,  Guy  made  cut  dimly  a  few  round  or  oblong  tents, 
with  occasional  rude  huts  of  corrugated  iron.  A  few  uncer- 
tain figures  lounged  vaguely  in  the  background.  On  closer 
inspection  they  proved  to  be  much-gnmed  and  half-naked 
natives,  resting  their  weary  limbs  on  piles  of  dry  dust  after 
their  toil  in  the  diggings. 

It  was  an  unearthly  scene.  Guy's  heart  sunk  lower  and 
lower  still  at  every  step  the  horses  took  into  that  howling 
wilderness. 

At  last  the  driver  drew  up  with  a  jolt  in  front  of  a  long,  low 
hut  ot  corrugated  iron,  somewhat  larger  than  the  rest,  but  no 
less  dull  and  dreary.  "The  hotel,"  he  said,  briefly;  and  Guy 
jumped  out  to  secure  himself  a  night's  lodging  or  so  at  this 
place  of  eiitertainment,  till  he  could  negotiate  for  a  huw  and  a 
decent  claim,  and  commence  his  digging. 

At  the  bar  of  the  primitive  saloon  where  he  found  himself 
landed,  a  man  ni  a  gray  tweed  suit  was  already  seated.  He 
was  drinking  something  fizzy  from  a  tall  soda-water  glass. 
With  a  sudden  start  of  horror,  Guy  recognized  him  at  once. 
Oh,  great  heavens!  what  was  this?  It  was  Granville  Kelm- 
scott! 

Then  Gi'anville,  too,  was  bound  for  the  diamond-fields  like 
himself.  What  an  incredible  coincidence!  How  strange! 
How  inexplicable!  That  rich  man's  son,  the  pampered  heir 
to  Tilgate!    What  could  he  be  doing  here,  in  this  out-of-the- 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


I  i 


timself 

.     He 

glass. 

once. 

Kelm- 

IS  like 
[range! 
heir 
)f-the- 


way  spot,  this  last  resort  of  poor  broken-down  men,  this  miser- 
able haunt  of  wretched,  gambling  money-grubbers? 

His  curiosity,  surely,  must  have  drawn  him  to  the  spot. 
He  couldn't  have  come  to  (/ij(/  (luy  gazed  in  amazement  at 
thc»t  gray  tweed  suit.  He  must  be  staying  for  a  day  or  two  in 
search  of  adventure.  No  more  than  just  that!  He  couldn't 
mean  to  stop  here. 

As  he  gazed  and  stood  open-mouthed  in  the  shadow  of  the 
door,  Granville  Kelmsicott,  who  hadn't  seen  him  enter,  laid 
down  his  glass,  wiped  his  lips  with  gusto,  and  continued  his 
conversation  with  the  complacent  barman. 

**  Yes,  I  want  a  hut  here,"  he  said,  "  and  to  buy  a  ;,^ood  claim. 
I've  been  lookinj^  over  the  kopje  down  by  Watson's  spare  land, 
and  I  think  !'"('  seen  a  lot  that's  likely  to  suit  me." 

Guy  could  hardly  restrain  his  astonishment  and  surprise. 
He  had  come,  then,  to  dig!     Oh,  incredible!     Impossible! 

But,  at  any  rate,  this  settled  his  own  immediate  movements. 
Guy's  mind  was  made  up  at  once.  If  Granville  Kelmscott 
was  going  to  dig  at  Dutoitspan — why,  clearly,  Dutoitspan  was 
no  place  for  ///;//.  He  could  never  stand  the  continual  pres- 
ence of  the  one  man  in  South  Africa  who  knew  his  deadly 
secret.  Come  what  might,  he  must  leave  the  neighborhood 
without  a  moment's  delay.  He  must  strike  out  at  once  for 
the  far  interior.  As  he  paused,  Granville  Kelmscott  turned 
round  and  saw  him.  Their  eyes  met  with  a  start.  Each  was 
equally  astonished.  Then  Granvil'e  rose  slowly  from  his  seat 
and  murmured  in  a  low  voice,  as  he  regarded  him  fixedly: 

"  You  here  again,  Mr.  Billington?  This  is  once  too  often. 
T  hardly  expected  //it's.  There's  no  room  here  for  both 
of  us." 

And  he  strode  from  the  saloon,  with  a  very  black  brow, 
leaving  Guy  for  the  moment  alone  with  the  barman. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

A    NEW   DEPARTURE. 

A  fortnight  later,  one  sultry  afternoon,  Granville  Kelm- 
scott found  himself,  after  various  strange  adventures  and 
escapes  by  the  way,  m  a  Koranna  hut,  far  in  the  untraveled 
heart  of  the  savage  Burolong  country. 


f^ 


(<" 


Si 


^1 


fi 


178 


WHAT  S   BRKO  IW    THE   BONE. 


Tlie  tenement  where  he  sat,  or,  more  precisely,  squatted,  was 
by  no  means  either  a  commodious  or  sweet-scented  one,  yet 
it  was  the  biggest  of  a  group  on  the  river-bank,  some  five  feet 
high  from  fioor  to  ro(jf,  so  that  a  Kehnscott  couldn't  possibly 
stand  erect  at  full  length  in  it;  and  it  was  roughly  round  in 
shape,  like  an  over-grown  beehive,  the  framework  consisting 
of  branches  of  trees  arranged  in  a  rude  circle,  over  whose 
arching  ribs  native  rush-mats  had  been  thrown  or  sewn  with 
irregular  order.  The  door  was  a  hole,  through  which  the 
proud  descendant  of  the  scpiires  of  Tilgata  had  to  creep  on  all 
fours;  a  hollow  [)it  dug  out  in  the  center  served  as  the  only 
fire-place;  smoke  and  stagnant  air  formed  the  staples  of  the 
atmosphere.  A  more  squalid  hovel  Granville  Kelmscott  had 
never  even  conceived  as  possible.  It  was  as  dirty  and  as 
loathsome  as  the  most  vivid  imagination  could  picture  the  hut 
of  the  lowest  savages. 

Yet  here  that  delicately  nurtured  English  gentleman  was  to 
be  cooped  up  for  an  indefinite  time,  as  it  seemed,  by  order 
of  the  black  despot  who  ruled  over  the  Barolong  with  a  rod  of 
iron. 

What  had  led  dranville  Kelmscott  into  this  extraordinary 
scrape  it  would  not  be  hard  to  say.  The  Kelmscott  nature,  in 
all  its  embodiments,  worked  on  very  simple  but  very  fixed 
lines.  The  moment  (Iranville  saw  his  half-brother  Guy  at 
Dutoitspan,  his  mind  was  made  up  at  once  as  to  his  imme- 
diate procedure.  He  wouldn't  stop  one  day — one  hour  longer 
than  necessary — where  he  could  see  that  fellow  who  committed 
the  murder.  Come  what  might,  he  would  make  his  escape  at 
once  into  the  far  interior. 

As  before  in  England,  so  now  in  Africa,  both  brothers  were 
moved  by  the  self -same  impulses;  and  each  carried  them  out 
with  characteristic  promptitude. 

Where  could  Granville  go,  however?  Well,  it  was  rumored 
at  Dutoitspan  that  "pebbles"  had  been  found  far  away  to  the 
north,  in  the  Barolong  country — '*  pebbles,"  of  course,  is  good 
South  African  for  diamonds — and  at  this  welcome  news  all 
Kimberley  and  Griquaiand  pricked  up  their  ears  with  con- 
genial delight;  for  business  was  growing  flat  on  the  old-estab- 
lished diamond-fields.  The  palmy  era  of  great  finds  and  lucky 
hits  was  now  long  past;  the  day  of  systematic  and  prosaic 
industry  had  set  in  instead  for  the  Dver-stocked  diggings.  It 
was  no  longer  possible  fo"  the  luckiest  fresh  hand  to  pick  up 


WHAT  S   BRED    IN    THE    BONE. 


179 


pebbles  lying  loose  on  the  surface;  the  mode  of  working  had 
become  highly  skilled  and  scientific. 

Machines  and  scaffolds,  and  washing-cradles  and  lifting 
apparatus,  were  now  required  to  make  the  business  a  success; 
the  simple  old  gambling  element  was  rapidly  going  out,  and 
the  capitalist  was  rapidly  coming  up  in  its  stead  as  master  of 
the  situation.  So  Clranville  Kelmscott,  being  an  enterprising 
young  man,  though  destitute  of  cash,  and  utterly  ignorant  ol 
South  African  life,  determined  to  push  on  with  all  his  might 
and  mam  into  the  Barolong  country,  and  to  rush  for  the  front 
among  the  iirst  in  the  field  in  these  rumored  new  diggings  on 
the  extreme  north  frontier  of  civilization. 

He  .started  alone,  as  a  Kelmscott  might  do,  and  made  his 
way  adventurously,  without  any  knowledge  of  the  Koranna 
language  or  manners,  through  many  wild  villages  of  King 
Khatsua's  dominions.  Night  after  night  he  camped  out  in  the 
open;  and  day  after  day  he  tramped  on  by  himself,  buying 
food,  as  he  went,  from  the  natives  for  English  silver,  in  search 
of  precious  stones,  over  that  dreary  table-land.  At  last,  on  the 
fourteenth  day,  in  a  dep,  alluvial  hollow,  near  a  squalid  group 
of  small  Barolong  huts,  he  saw  a  tiny  round  stone,  much 
rubbed  and  water-worn,  which  he  picked  up  and  examined  with 
no  little  curiosity.  The  two  days  he  had  spent  at  Dutoitspan 
had  not  been  wasted.  He  had  learned  to  recognize  the  look  of 
the  native  gem.  One  glance  told  him  at  once  what  his  pebble 
wa.s.  He  recognized  it  at  sight  as  one  of  those  small  but  much- 
valued  diamonds,  of  the  finest  water,  which  diggers  know  by 
the  technical  name  of  **gla.ss-stones." 

The  hollow  where  he  stood  was,  in  fact,  an  ancient  alluvial 
pit  or  volcanic  mud-crater.  Scoriae  rubble  filled  it  in  to  a  very 
great  depth;  and  in  the  interstices  of  this  rubble  were  em- 
bedded, here  and  there,  rude  blocks  of  greenstone,  containing 
almond-shaped  chalcedonies,  and  agate,  and  milk-quartz,  with 
now  and  then  a  tiny  water-worn  speck,  which  an  experienced 
eye  would   have  detected  at  once  as  the  finest  "river-stones." 

Here,  mdeed,  was  a  prize!  The  solitary  Englishman  recog- 
nized in  a  second  that  he  was  the  first  pioneer  of  a  new  and 
richer  Kimberley. 

Hut  as  (Iranville  Kelmscott  stood  still,  looking  hard  at  his 
find  through  the  little  pocket-lens  he  had  brought  with  him 
from  England,  with  a  justifiable  tremor  of  delight  at  the 
pleasant  thought  that  here,  perhaps,  he  had  lighted  on  the  key 


m 


WHATS   DkED   IN   T  JE   BONE. 


I 


to  something  which  might  restore  him  once  more  to  his  proper 
ni.u  c  at  1  il^atc,  he  was  suddenly  roused  from  his  dehghtfiil 
reveriii  by  a  harsh  negro  voice,  shrill  and  clear,  close  hehiiid 
him,  saying,  in  a  very  tolerable  African-English: 

•'  llillo,  you  white  man!  what  dat  you  got  dere?  You  come 
here  to  llarolong  land,  so  go  look  for  diamond?" 

tlranville  turned  sharply  round,  anil  saw  standing  by  his  siile 
a  naked  and  stalwart  black  man,  smiling  blandly  ai  his 
iliscovery  with  broad  negro  amusement. 

"  It's  a  pebble,"  the  Englishman  said,  pocketing  it  as  care- 
lessly as  he  could,  and  trying  to  look  unconcerned,  for  his  new 
ac(iuaMitance  held  a  long  native  spear  in  his  stout  left  hand, 
and  looked,  by  no  means,  the  sort  of  person  to  be  lightly 
trilled  with. 

"Oh,  dat  a  pebble,  mistah  white  man!  "  the  l»arolong  said, 
sarcastically,  holding  out  his  black  right  hand  with  a  very 
imperious  air.  '*  Den  you  please  hand  him  over  dat  pebble 
you  fmd.  Me  got  me  orders.  King  Khatsua  no  want  any 
diamond-digging  in  liarolong  land." 

Granville  tried  to  parley  with  the  categorical  native;  but  his 
attem[)ls  at  palaver  were  eminently  unsuccessful.  The  naked 
black  man  was  master  of  the  situation. 

♦'  You  hand  over  dat  stone,  me  friend,"  he  said,  assuming  a 
menacing  attitude,  and  holding  out  his  hand  once  more  with  no 
very  gentle  air,  "or  me  run  you  trew  de  body  wid  me  assegai 
— just  so!  King  Khatsua,  him  no  want  any  diamond-digging 
in  liarolong  land. 

And,  indeed,  dranvil..  Kelmscott  couldn't  help  admitting 
to  him.self,  when  he  came  to  think  of  it,  that  King  Khatsua 
was  acting  wisely  in  his  generation;  for  the  introduction  of 
dig}>ers  into  his  ilominions  would  surely  have  meant,  as  every- 
where else,  the  speedy  proclamation  of  a  British  protectorate, 
and  the  final  annihilation  of  King  Khatsua  himself  and  his 
dusky  fellow-countrymen. 

There  is  nothing,  to  say  the  truth,  the  South  African  native 
dreads  so  much  as  being  "eaten  up,"  as  he  calls  it,  by  those 
aggre.ssive  English.  King  Khatsua  knev  '^is  one  chance  in 
life  consisted  in  keeping  the  diggers  firmly  out  of  his  domin- 
ions; and  he  was  prepared  to  deny  the  very  existence  of  dia- 
monds throughout  the  whole  of  Barolong  land,  until  the 
English,  by  sheer  force,  should  come  in  flocks  and  uneurth 
them. 


WHA'IS    HKKI)    l\     NIK    HONE. 


181 


(I  his 


In  obedience  to  his  rlilrf's  command,  therefore,  the  naked 
henchman  Htill  held  out  his  hand  niena(  iiigly. 

'•  I^JH  land  Ki:ij(  Khatsua's,"  he  repeated  once  more  in  an 
angry  voice.  '*  All  diamoruls  found  on  it  belong  to  King 
Khatsna.     Just  you  hand  dat  over.     No  steal;  no  tief-ee." 

The  instincts  of  tiie  land-owning  class  were  too  strong  in 
Granvilk:  Kelmscott  not  to  make  iiini  admit  at  imcc.  to  himself 
the  justice  of  this  claim.  The  owner  of  the  soil  had  a  right  to 
the  diamonds.  He  handr^d  over  the  stone  with  a  pang  of 
regret.  The  savage  grinned  to  himself,  and  scanned  it  attent- 
ively. Then  extending  his  spear,  as  one  might  do  to  a  cow 
or  a  sheep,  he  drove  Granville  before  him. 

"You  come  along  'a  me,"  he  said,  shortly,  in  a  most  deter- 
mined voice.  "You  come  along  *a  me.  King  Khatsua's 
orders." 

Granville  went  before  him  without  one  word  of  remonstrance, 
much  wondering  what  was  likely  to  happen  next,  till  he  founcl 
himself  suddenly  driven  into  that  noisome  hut,  where  he  was 
forced  to  enter  ignominiously  on  all  fours  like  an  eight  month.s' 
old  baby. 

By  the  light  of  the  fire  that  burned  dimly  in  the  midst  of  his 
captor's  house  he  could  see,  as  his  eyes  grew  gradually  accus- 
tomed to  the  murky  gloom,  a  strange  and  savage  scene  sui:h 
as  he  had  never  before  in  his  life  dreamed  of.  In  the  pit  of  the 
hut  some  embers  glowed  feebly,  from  whose  midst  a  fleecy 
object  was  sputtering  and  hissing.  A  .secf)n(l  glance  assured 
him  that  the  savory  morsel  was  th  ^  head  of  an  antelope  in 
process  of  roasting.  Two  greasy  black  w<Mrien,  naked  to  the 
waist,  were  superintending  this  primitive  C(jokery;  all  round, 
a  group  of  unclad  little  imps,  as  black  as  their  mothers, 
lounged  idly  about,  with  their  eyes  firmly  fixed  on  the  chance 
of  dinner.  As  Granville  entered,  the  husband  and  father, 
poking  in  his  head,  shouted  a  few  words  after  him.  Another 
native  outside  kept  watch  and  ward  with  a  spear  at  the  door, 
meanwhile,  to  prevent  his  escape  against  King  Khatsua's 
orders. 

For  two  long  hours  the  Englishman  waited  there,  fretting 
and  fuming,  in  that  stifling  atmosphere.  Meanwhile,  the  ante- 
lope's head  was  fully  cooked,  and  the  women  and  children,  fall- 
ing on  it  like  wild  beasts,  tore  off  the  scorched  fleece,  and 
snatched  the  charred  flesh  from  the  bones  with  their  fingers 
greedily.     It  was  a  hideous  sight;  it  sickened  him  to  see  it. 


182 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


i 


f     !, 


•h 


By  and  by  Granville  heard  a  loud  voice  outside.  He  lis- 
tened in  surprise.  It  sounded  as  hough  Barolong  had 
another  prisoner.  There  was  a  pause  a.  d  a  scuffle;  then,  all 
of  a  sudden,  somebody  else  came  bundling  unceremoniously 
through  the  hole  that  served  for  a  door,  in  the  same  undigni- 
fied fashion  as  he  himself  had  done.  Ciranville's  eyes,  now 
accustomed  to  the  gloom,  recognized  the  stranger  at  once 
with  a  thrill  of  astonishment.  He  could  hardly  trust  his 
senses  at  the  sight.  It  was — no,  it  couldn't  be — yes,  it  was — 
Ciuy  Waring. 

Ciuy  Waring,  sure  enough;  as  before,  they  were  compan- 
ions. 'Ihe  Kelmscott  character  had  worked  itself  out  exactly 
alike  in  each  of  them.  They  had  come  independently  by  the 
.self-same  road  to  the  rumond  diamond-fields  of  the  Barolong 
country. 

It  was  some  minutes,  however,  before  (luy  for  his  part 
recognized  his  f'How-prisoner  in  the  dark  and  gloomy  hut. 
Then  each  stared  at  the  other  in  mute  surprise.  They  found 
no  words  to  speak  their  mutual  as.onishment.  This  was  more 
wonderful,  to  be  sure>  than  even  either  of  their  former 
encounters. 

For  another  long  hour  the  two  unfriendly  Englishmen  hud- 
dled away  from  one  another  in  opposite  corners  of  that 
native  hut,  without  speaking  a  word  of  any  sort  in  their  present 
strait.s.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  a  voice  spoke  at  the  door 
some  guttural  sentences  in  the  Barolong  language.  The 
natives  inside  responded  alike  in  their  own  savage  clicks. 
Ne.xt  the  voice  spoke  in  English;  it  was  Granville's  captor, 
he  now  knew  well. 

"White  men,  you  come  out;  King  Khatsua  himself,  him  go 
to 'peak  to  you." 

They  crawled  out,  one  at  a  time,  in  sorry  guise,  through 
the  narrow  hole.  It  was  a  pitiful  exhibition.  Were  it  not  for 
the  danger  and  uncertainly  of  the  event,  they  could  almost 
themselves  have  fairly  laughed  at  it.  King  Khatsua  stood 
before  them,  a  tall,  full-blooded  black,  in  European  costume, 
with  a  round  felt  hat  and  a  crimson  tie,  surrounded  by  his 
naked  wives  and  attendants.  In  his  outstretched  hand  he  held 
before  their  faces  two  incriminating  diamonds.  He  spoke  to 
them  with  much  dignity  at  considerable  length,  in  the  Baro- 
long tongue,  if)  a  running  accompaniment  of  laudatory 
exclamations— "  Oh,  my  king  !    Oh,  wise  words!" — from  the 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


183 


bugli 
t  for 
most 
Itood 

ime, 
his 
Iheld 

;e  to 
jaro- 
|tory 
the 


mouths  of  his  courtiers.  Neither  Granville  nor  Guy  under- 
stood, of  course,  a  single  syllable  of  the  stately  address;  but 
that  didn't  in  the  least  disturb  the  composure  of  the  dusky 
monarch.  He  went  right  through  to  the  end  with  his  solemn 
warning,  scolding  them  both  roundly,  as  they  guessed,  in  his 
native  tongue,  like  a  master  reproving  a  pair  of  naughty 
school-boys. 

As  he  finished,  their  captor  stood  forth,  with  great  im- 
portance, to  act  as  interpreter.  He  had  been  to  the  Kimber- 
ley  diamond-mines  himself  as  a  laborer,  and  was,  therefore, 
accounted  by  his  own  people  a  perfect  model  of  English 
scholarship. 

"  King  Khatsua  say  this,"  he  observed,  curtly.  "  You  very 
bad  men;  you  come  to  Barolong  land.  King  Khatsua  say, 
Barolong  land  for  Barolong.  No  allow  white  man  dig  here 
for  diamonds.  If  white  man  come,  him  eat  up  Barolong. 
Keep  white  man  out;  keep  land  for  King  Khatsua." 

"  Does  King  Khatsua  want  us  to  leave  his  country,  then?" 
Granville  Kelmscott  asked,  with  a  distinct  tremor  in  his 
voice,  for  the  great  chief  and  his  followers  looked  decidedly 
hostile. 

The  interpreter  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  a  loud, 
long  laugh. 

"  King  Khatsua  not  a  fool !  "  he  answered  at  last,  after  a 
rhetorical  pause.  King  Khatsua  no  want  to  give  up  his  land 
to  white  man.  If  you  two  white  man  go  back  to  Kimberley, 
you  tell  plenty  other  people,  *  Diamonds  in  Barolong  land.' 
You  say,  'Come  along  o'  me  to  Barolong  land  with  gun;  we 
show  you  where  to  dig  'um  ! '  No,  no,  King  Khatsua  not  a 
fool.  King  Khatsua  say  this.  You  two  white  men  no  go 
back  to  Kimberley.  You  spies.  You  stop  here  plenty  time 
along  o' King  Khatsua.  Never  go  back  till  King  Khatsua 
give  leave.  So  no  let  any  other  white  man  come  along  into 
Barolong  land." 

Granville  looked  at  Guy,  and  Guy  looked  at  Granville.  In 
this  last  extremity,  before  those  domineering  blacks,  they 
almost  forgot  everything,  save  that  they  were  both  English. 
What  were  they  to  do  now?  The  situation  was  becoming 
truly  terrible. 

The  interpreter  went  on  once  more,  however,  with  genuine 
savage  en  joyment  of  the  consternation  he  was  causing  them. 

"  King  Khatsua  say  this,"  he  continued,  in  a  very  amused 


184 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN   THE   RONE. 


tone.  "  You  stop  here  plenty  days,  very  good,  in  Barolong 
land.  King  Khatsiia  give  you  hut;  King  Khatsua  give  you 
claim;  Barolong  man  bring  spear  and  guard  you.  No  do  you 
any  harm  for  fear  of  Governor.  Governor  keep  plenty  guns 
in  Cape  Town.  You  two  white  man  live  in  hut  together, 
dig  diamonds  together;  get  plenty  pebbles.  Keep  one  dia- 
mond you  find  for  yourself;  give  one  diamond  after  that  to 
King  Khatsua.  Barolong  man  bring  you  plenty  food,  plenty 
(Irinic,  but  no  let  you  go  back.  You  try  to  go,  then  Barolong 
man  spear  you." 

The  playful  dig  with  which  the  savage  thrust  forward  his 
assegai  at  that  final  remark  showed  (jranville  Kelmscott  in  a 
moment  that  this  was  no  idle  threat.  It  was  clear,  for  the 
present,  they  must  accept  the  inevitable.  They  must  remain 
m  Barolong  land;  and  he  must  share  hut  and  work  with  that 
doubly  hateful  creature  —  the  man  who  had  deprived  him  of 
his  patrimony  at  Tilgate,  and  whom  he  firmly  believed  to  be 
the  murderer  of  Montague  Nevitt.  This  was  what  had  come, 
then,  of  his  journey  to  Africa!  Truly,  adversity  makes  us 
acquainted  with  strange  bed-fellows. 


i 


\ 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


TIME   FLIES. 


Eighteen  months  passed  away  in  England,  and  nothing 
more  was  heard  of  the  two  fugitives  to  Africa.  Lady  Emily's 
cup  was  very  full  indeed.  On  the  self-same  day  she  learned 
of  her  husband's  death  and  her  son's  mysterious  and  unac- 
countable disappearance.  From  that  moment  forth,  he  was 
to  her  as  if  dead.  After  Granville  left,  no  letters  or  news  of 
him,  direct  or  indirect,  ever  reached  Tilgate.  It  was  almost 
inexplicable.  He  had  disappeared  into  space,  and  no  man 
knew  of  him. 

Cyril,  too,  had  now  almost  given  up  hoping  for  news  of  Guy. 
Slowly  the  conviction  forced  itself  deeper  and  still  deeper 
upon  his  mind,  in  spite  of  Elma,  that  Guy  was  really  Mon- 
tague Nevitt's  murderer.  Else  how  account  for  Guy's  sudden 
disappearance,  and  for  the  fact  that  he  never  even  wrote 
home  his  whereabouts?  Nay,  Guy's  letter  itself  left  no 
doubt  upon  his  mind.     Cyril  went  through  life  now  oppressed 


WHAT  S  BKED   IN    TH£   BONE. 


185 


continually  with  the  terrible  burden  of  being  a  murderer's 
brother. 

And  indeed  everybody  else — except  Elma  Clifford — implic- 
itly shared  that  opinion  with  him.  Cyril  was  sure  the 
unknown  benefactor  shared  it  too,  for  Ciuy's  six  thousand 
pounds  were  never  paid  in  to  his  credit — as  indeed  how  could 
they,  since  Colonel  Kelmscc|tt,  who  had  promised  to  pay 
them,  died  before  receiving  the  balance  of  the  purchase 
money  for  the  Dowlands  estate?  Cyril  slunk  through  the 
world,  then,  weighed  down  by  his  shame;  for  Guy  and  he 
M-ere  each  other's  doubles,  and  he  always  had  a  deep,  under- 
lying conviction  that  as  Guy  was  in  any  particular,  so  also  in 
the  very  fibre  of  his  nature  he  himself  was. 

Everybody  else  except  Elma  CliiYord;  but,  in  fipite  of  all, 
Elma  still  held  out  firm,  in  her  intuitive  way,  in  favor  of 
Guy's  innocence.  She  knew  it,  she  said;  and  there  the  matter 
dropped.  And  she  knew  quite  eciually,  in  her  own  firm  mind, 
that  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  was  the  p.al  murderer. 

Gilbert  Gildersleeve,  meanwhile,  had  gone  up  a  step  or  two 
higher  in  the  social  scale.  He  had  been  prtmioted  to  the 
bench  on  the  first  vacancy,  as  all  the  world  had  long  ex- 
pected; but,  strange  to  say,  he  took  it  far  more  modestly  than 
all  the  world  had  ever  anticipated.  Indeed,  before  he  was 
made  a  judge,  everybody  said  he'd  be  intolerable  in  the 
ermine.  He  was  blustering  and  bullying  enough,  in  all  con- 
science, as  a  mere  Queen's  Counsel;  but  when  he  came  to 
preside  in  a  court  of  his  own,  his  insolence  would  surpass  even 
the  wonted  insolence  of  our  autocratic  British  justices.  In 
this,  however,  everybody  was  mistaken. 

A  curious  change  had  of  late  come  over  C.ilbert  Gilder- 
sleeve. The  big,  bullying  lawyer  was  growing  nervous  and 
diffident,  where  of  old  he  had  been  coarse  and  .self-assertive 
and  blustering.  He  was  beginning  at  times  almost  to  doubt 
his  own  absolute  omniscience  and  absolute  wisdom.  He  was 
prepared  half  to  admit  that  under  certain  circumstances  a 
prisoner  might  possibly  be  in  the  right,  and  that  all  crimes 
alike  did  not  necessarily  deserve  the  hardest  sentence  the  law 
of  the  land  allowed  him  to  allot  them.  Habitual  criminals, 
even,  began  after  awhile  to  express  a  fervent  hope,  as  assizes 
approached,  they  might  be  tried  by  old  Gildersleeve.  "Gilly," 
they  said,  "gave a  cove  a  chance;  "  he  wasn't  "one  of  these 
'ere  reg'lar  'anging  judges,  like  Sir  'Enery  Atkins." 


! 


186 


WHAT  S   IIRED    IN    TIFE    BONE. 


i!) 


During  those  eighteen  months,  too,  Cyril  tried  as  far  as  he 
could,  from  a  stern  sense  of  duty,  to  see  as  little  as  possible 
of  Elma  Clifford.  He  loved  Elmu  still — that  goes  without 
saying — more  devotedly  than  ever;  and  Elma's  profound  belief 
that  Cyril's  brother  couldn't  possibly  have  committed  so  grave 
a  crime  touched  his  heart  to  the  core  by  its  womanly  confi- 
dence. There's  nothinjr  a  man  likes  so  much  as  being  trusted. 
But  he  had  declared,  in  the  first  flush  of  his  horror  and  despair, 
that  he  would  never  agiin  ask  Elma  to  marry  him  till  the 
cloud  that  hung  over  Guy's  character  had  been  lifted  and 
dissipated;  and  now  that,  month  after  month,  no  news  came 
from  (iuy,  and  all  hope  seemed  to  fade,  he  felt  it  would  be 
wrong  of  him  even  to  see  her  or  speak  with  her. 

On  that  question,  however,  Elma  herself  had  a  voice  as  well. 
Man  proposes;  woman  decides.  And  though  Elma,  for  her 
part,  had  quite  equally  made  up  her  mind  never  to  marry  Cyril, 
with  that  nameless  terror  of  expected  madness  hanging  ever 
over  her  head,  she  felt,  on  the  other  hand,  her  very  loyalty  to 
Cyril  and  to  Cyril's  brother  imperatively  demanded  that  she 
shoukl  still  see  him  often,  and  display  marked  friendship 
toward  him  as  openly  as  possible.  She  wanted  the  world  to 
see  plainly  for  itself  that,  so  far  as  this  matter  of  Ouy's  repu- 
tation was  concerned,  if  Cyril,  for  his  part,  wanted  to  marry 
her,  she,  on  her  side,  would  be  (piite  ready  to  marry  Cyril. 

So  she  insisted  on  meeting  him  wlienever  she  could,  and  on 
writing  to  him  openly  from  time  to  time  very  affectionate 
notes — those  familiar  notes  we  all  know  so  well  and  prize  so 
dearly — full  of  hopeless  love  and  unabated  confidence.  Yes, 
good  Mr.  Stockbroker,  who  do  me  the  honor  to  read  my  simple 
tale,  smile  cynically  if  you  will.  You  pretend  to  care  nothing 
for  these  little  sentimentalities;  but  you  know  very  well,  in 
your  own  heart,  you've  a  bundle  of  them  at  home,  very  brown 
and  yellow,  locked  up  in  your  escritorie;  and  you'd  let  New 
Zealand  Fours  sink  to  the  bottom  of  the  Indian  Ocean,  and 
Egyptian  Unified  go  down  to  zero,  before  ever  you'd  part  with 
a  single  faded  page  of  them. 

What  can  a  man  do,  then,  even  under  such  painful  circum- 
stances, when  a  girl  whom  he  loves  with  all  his  heart  lets  him 
clearly  see  she  loves  him  in  return  quite  as  truly  ?  Cyril 
would  have  been  more  than  human  if  he  hadn't  answered  those 
notes  in  an  equally  ardent  and  equally  desponding  strain.  The 
burden  of  both  their  tales  was  always  this — even  i{j>ou  would, 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN   THE  BONE. 


187 


/couldn't,  because  I  love  you  too  much  to  Impose  my  own 
disgrace  upon  you. 

liut  what  Elma's  mysterious  trouble  could  be  Cyril  was  still 
unable  even  to  hazard  a  guess,  lie  only  knew  she  had  some 
reason  of  her  own  which  seen  fd  to  her  a  sufficient  bar  to 
matrimony,  and  made  her  firmly  determine  never,  in  any  i.ise, 
to  marry  anyone. 

About  twelve  months  after  (luy's  sudden  disappearance, 
however,  a  new  elemenf  entered  into  F^lma's  life.  At  first 
sight  it  seemed  to  have  but  little  to  do  vith  the  secret  of  her 
soul.  It  was  merely  thai  the  new  purch  ser  of  the  Dowlands 
estate  had  built  herself  a  r>i>tty  little  Queen  Anne  house  on 
the  ground,  and  come  to  i    e  ni  it. 

Nevertheless,  from  the  \cry  first  d  ly  they  met,  Klma  took 
most  kindly  to  this  n^w  Miss  Ewes,  the  strange  and  eccentric 
musical  composer.  The  mistress  of  Dowlands  was  a  distant 
cousin  of  Mrs,  Clifford's  own,  so  the  fami' /  naturally  had  to 
call  upon  her  at  once;  and  Elma  somehow  seemed  always  to 
get  on  from  the  outset  in  a  remarkable  way  with  her  mother's 
relations.  At  first,  to  be  sure,  Elma  could  see  Mrs.  Clifford 
was  rather  afraid  to  leave  her  alone  with  the  odd  new-conu  r, 
whose  habits  and  manners  were  as  curious  and  weird  as  the 
sudden  twists  and  turns  of  her  own  wayward  music.  Hut 
after  a  time  a  change  came  over  Mrs.  Clifford  in  this  respect; 
and  instead  of  trying  to  keep  Elma  and  Miss  Ewes  apart,  it 
was  evident  to  Elma  (who  never  missed  any  of  the  small 
by-play  of  life)  that  her  mother  rather  desired  to  throw 
them  closely  together.  Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  one 
morning,  about  a  month  after  Miss  Ewes'  arrival  in  her 
new  home,  Elma  had  run  in  with  a  message  from  her 
mother,  and  found  the  distinguished  composer,  as  was  often 
the  case  at  that  time  of  day,  sitting  dreamily  at  her  piano, 
trying  over  on  the  gamut  strange,  fanciful  chords  of  her  own 
peculiar,  witch-like  character.  The  music  waxed  and  waned 
in  a  familiar  lilt. 

"That's  beautiful,"  Elma  cried,  enthusiastically,  as  the  com- 
poser looked  up  at  her  with  an  inquiring  glance.  '*  1  never 
heard  anything  in  my  life  before  that  went  so  straight  through 
one  with  its  penetrating  melody.  Such  a  lovely,  gliding 
sound,  you  know!  So  soft  and  .serpentine!  "  And  even  as 
she  said  it,  a  deep  flush  rose  red  in  the  center  of  her  cheek. 
She  was  sorry  for  her  words  before  they  were  out  of  her 


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188 


WHAJ  S    V.V.ED    IN    I'UV.    LONK. 


mouUi.  They  recalled  all  at  once,  in  some  mysterious  way, 
that  hovrid,  persistent  nightmare  of  the  hateful  snake-dance. 
Jn  a  second  Miss  Ewes  caught  the  bright  gleam  in  her  eye, 
and  the  deep  flush  on  her  cheek  that  so  hastily  followed  it. 
A  meaning  smile  came  over  the  elder  woman's  face  all  at  once, 
not  unpleasantly.  She  was  a  handsome  v/oma^  for  her  age, 
but  very  dark  and  gypsy-like,  after  the  fashion  of  the  Eweses, 
with  keen  Italian  eyes  and  a  large,  smooth  expanse  of  power- 
ful forehead.  Lightly  she  ran  her  hand  over  the  keys  with  a 
masterly  touch,  and  fixed  her  glance  as  she  did  so  on  Elma. 
There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Miss  Ewes  eyed  her  closely. 
She  was  playing  a  tune  that  seemed  oddly  familiar  to  Elma's 
brain,  somehow — to  her  brain,  not  to  her  ears,  for  Elma  felt 
certain,  even  while  she  recognized  it  must,  she  had  never  before 
heard  it.  It  was  a  tune  that  waxed  and  waned,  and  curled  up 
and  down  sinuously,  and  twisted  in  and  out,  and  —  ah,  yes, 
now  she  knew  it !  —  raised  its  sleek  head,  and  darted  out  its 
forked  tongue,  and  vibrated  with  swift  tremors,  and  tightened 
and  slackened,  and  coiled  restlessly  at  last  in  great  folds  all 
around  her.  Elma  listened,  with  eager  eyes  half-starting 
from  her  head,  with  clinched  nails  dug  deep  into  the  tremu- 
lous palms,  as  her  heart  throbbed  fast  and  her  nerves  quivered 
fiercely.  Oh,  it  was  wrong  of  Miss  Ewes  to  tempt  her  like 
this  !  It  was  wrong,  so  wrong  of  her  !  For  Elma  knew  what 
it  was  at  once  —  the  song  she  had  heard  running  vaguely 
through  her  head  the  light  of  the  dance,  the  night  she  fell 
In  love  with  Cyril  Waring. 

With  a  throbbing  heart,  Elma  sat  down  on  the  sofa,  and 
tried  with  all  her  might  and  main  not  to  listen.  She  clasped 
her  hands  still  tighter.  She  refused  to  be  wrought  up.  She 
wouldn't  give  way  to  it.  If  she  had  followed  her  own  impulse, 
to  be  sure,  she  would  have  risen  on  the  spot  and  danced  that 
mad  dance  once  more  with  all  the  wild  abandonment  of  an 
almch  or  a  Zingari.  But  she  resisted  with  all  her  might ;  and 
she  resisted  successfully. 

Miss  Ewes,  never  faltering,  kept  her  keen  eye  fixed  hard  on 
her  with  a  searching  glance,  as  she  ran  over  the  keys  in  ever 
fresh  combinations. 

Faster,  wilder,  and  stranger  the  music  rose ;  but  Elma  sat 
still,  her  breast  heaving  hard  and  her  breath  panting,  yet 
otherwise  as  still  and  motionless  as  a  statue.  She  knew  Miss 
Ewes  could  tell  exactly  how  she  felt.   She  knew  she  was  trying 


't 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE    BONE. 


189 


her;  she  knew  she  was  tempting  her  to  get  up  and  dance;  and 
yet  she  was  not  one  bit  afraid  of  this  strange,  weird  woman,  as 
she'd  been  afraid  that  sad  morning  at  home  of  her  own  mother. 

The  composer  went  on  fiercely  for  some  minutes,  more,  lean- 
ing close  over  the  keyboard,  and  throwing  her  very  soul,  as 
Elma  could  plainly  see.  into  the  tips  of  her  fingers.  Then 
suddenly  she  rose,  and  came  over,  well  pleased,  to  the  sofa 
where  Elma  sat.  With  a  motherly  gesture,  she  took  Elma's 
'hand;  she  smoothed  her  dark  hair;  she  bent  down,  with  a  ten- 
der look  in  those  strange  gray  eyes,  and  printed  a  kiss  unex- 
pectedly on  the  poor  girl's  forehead, 

*' Elma,"  she  said,  leaning  over  her, '*do  you  know  what 
that  was  ?  That  was  the  Naga  snake-dance.  It  gave  you 
an  almost  irresistible  longing  to  rise  and  hold  the  snake  in 
your  own  hands,  and  coil  his  great  folds  around  you.  I  could 
see  how  you  felt.  But  you  were  strong  enough  to  resist.  That 
was  very  well  done.  You  resisted  even  the  force  of  my  music, 
didn't  you?" 

Elma,  trembling  all  over,  but  bursting  with  joy  that  she 
could  speak  of  it  at  last  without  restraint  to  somebody, 
answered,  in  a  very  low  and  tremulous  voice,  "  Yes,  Miss  Ewes, 
1  resisted  it." 

Miss  Ewes  leaned  back  in  her  place,  and  gazed  at  her  long 
with  a  very  affectionate  and  motherly  air.  "  Then  I'm  sure  I 
don't  know,"  she  said  at  last,  breaking  out  in  a  voice  full  of 
confidence,  "why  on  earth  you  shouldn't  marry  this  young 
man  you're  in  love  with  !" 

Elma's  heart  beat  still  harder  and  higher  than  ever. 

"  What  young  man  ?  "  she  murmured  low  —  just  to  test  the 
enchantress. 

And  Miss  Ewes  made  answer  without  one  moment's  hesita- 
tion, "  Why,  of  course,  Cyril  Waring  !  " 

For  a  minute  or  two,  then,  t.iere  was  a  dead  silence.  A*"  / 
that.  Miss  Ewes  looked  up  and  spoke  again.  "  Have  you  felt 
it  often? "  she  asked,  without  one  word  of  explanation. 

"Twice  before/'  Elma  answered,  not  pretending  to  misun- 
derstand. "  Once  I  gave  way.  That  was  the  very  first  time, 
you  see,  and  I  didn't  know  yet  exactly  what  it  meant.  The 
second  time  I  knew,  and  then  I  resisted  it." 

Somehow,  before  Miss  Ewes  she  hardly  ever  felt  shy  ;  she 
was  so  conscious  Miss  Ewes  knew  all  about  it  without  her  tell' 
ing  her, 


^1 


"I 


I 
I 


\  >-.l 


'  I 


i  ■ 


190 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN    TllK   UONE. 


\i 


.. 


The  elder  woman  looked  at  her  with  unfeigned  admiration. 

"  That  was  brave  of  you,"  she  said,  quietly.  "  I  couldn't 
have  done  it  myself.  I  should  have  /lad  to  give  way  to  it. 
Then  in  you  its  dying  out ;  that's  as  clear  as  daylight.  It 
won't  go  any  further.  I  knew  it  wouldn't,  of  course,  when  I 
saw  you  resisted  even  the  Naga  dance.  And  for  you  that's 
excellent.  .  .  .  For  myself,  I  encourage  it.  It's  that  that 
makes  my  music  what  it  is.  It's  that  that  inspires  me.  / 
composed  that  Naga  dance  I  just  played  over  to  you,  Elma; 
but  not  all  out  of  my  own  head.  I  couldn't  have  invented  it. 
It  comes  down  in  our  blood,  my  dear,  to  you  and  me  alike. 
We  both  inherit  it  from  a  common  ancestress. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,"  Elma  cried,  nestling  close  to  her  new 
friend  with  a  wild  burst  of  relief.  "  I  don't  know  why,  but 
I'm  not  at  all  ashamed  of  it  all  before  you.  Miss  Ewes  —  at 
least,  not  in  the  way  I  am  before  mother." 

"You  needn't  be  ashamed  of  it,"  Miss  Ewes  answered, 
kindly.  "You've  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.  It'll  never  trou- 
ble you  in  your  life  again.  It  always  dies  out  at  last,  they 
say,  in  the  sixth  or  seventh  generation,  and  when  it's  dying 
out,  it  goes  as  it  went  with  you,  on  the  night  you  iirst  fell  in 
love  with  Cyril.  If,  after  that,  you  resist,  it  never  comes  back 
again.  Year  after  year,  the  impulse  grows  feebler  and  feebler; 
and  if  you  can  withstand  the  Naga  dance,  you  can  withstand 
anything.  Come  here  and  take  my  hand,  dear.  I'll  tell  you 
all  about  it. 

Late  at  night  Elma  sat,  tearful  but  happy,  in  her  own  room 
at  home,  writing  a  few  short  lines  to  Cyril  Waring.  This  was 
all  she  said: 

"  There's  no  reason  on  my  side  now,  dearest  Cyril.  It's  all 
a  mistake.  I'll  marry  you  whenever  and  wherever  you  will. 
There  need  be  no  reason  on  your  side,  either.  I  love  you  and 
can  trust  you.    Yours  ever,  Elma." 

When  Cyril  Waring  received  that  note  next  morning,  he 
kissed  it  reverently  and  put  it  away  in  his  desk  among  a  bun- 
dle of  others;  but  he  said  to  himself  sternly  in  his  own  soul, 
for  all  that,  "  Never,  while  Guy  still  rests  under  that  cloud  1 
And  how  it's  ever  to  be  lifted  from  him  is  to  me  inconceiv- 
able." 


I 
1 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


191 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 


A   STROKE    FOR    FREEDOM. 

In  Africa,  meanwhile,  during  those  eighteen  months,  King 
Khatsua  had  kept  his  royal  word.  He  had  held  his  two  Euro- 
pean prisoners  under  close  watch  and  ward  in  the  Koranna 
hut  he  had  assigned  them  for  their  residence. 

Like  most  other  negro  princes,  indeed,  Khatsua  was  a 
shrewd  man  of  business,  in  his  own  way;  and  while  he  meant 
to  prevent  the  English  strangers  from  escaping  seaward  with 
news  of  the  new  El  Dorado  they  had  discovered  in  Barolong 
land,  he  hadn't  the  least  idea  of  turning  away  on  that  account 
the  incidental  advantages  to  be  gained  for  himself  by  permit- 
ting them  to  hunt  freely  in  his  dominions  for  diamonds.  So 
long  as  ^ey  acquiesced  in  the  rough-and-ready  royalty  of  fifty 
per  cent,  he  had  proposed  to  them  when  he  first  decided  to  de- 
tain them  in  his  own  territory — one  stone  for  the  king  and 
one  for  the  explorers — they  were  free  to  pursue  their  quest 
after  gems  to  their  hearts'  content  in  the  valleys  of  Barolong 
land.  And  as  the  two  Englishmen,  for  their  part,  had  nothing 
else  to  do  in  Africa,  and  as  they  still  went  on  hoping  against 
hope  for  some  chance  of  escape  or  rescue,  they  dug  for  dia- 
monds with  a  will,  and  secured  a  number  of  first-class  stones 
that  would  have  made  their  fortunes  indeed — if  only  they 
could  have  got  them  to  the  sea  or  to  England. 

Of  course  they  lived  perforce  in  the  Koranna  hut  assigned 
them  by  the  king,  in  pretty  much  the  same  way  as  the 
Korannas  themselves  did.  King  Khatsua's  men  supplied 
them  abundantly  with  grain,  fruits,  and  game;  and  even  at 
times  procured  them  ready-made  clothes,  by  exchange  with 
Kimberley.  In  other  respects,  they  were  not  ill-treated;  they 
were  merely  detained  "during  his  majesty's  pleasure,"  But 
as  his  majesty  had  no  intention  of  kilhng  the  goose  that  laid 
the  golden  eggs,  or  of  letting  them  go,  if  he  could  help  it,  to 
spread  the  news  of  their  find  among  their  greedy  fellow-coun- 
trymen, it  seemed  to  them  both  as  if  they  might  go  on  being 
detained  like  this  in  Barolong  land  for  an  indefinite  period. 

Still,  things  went  indifferently  with  them.  As  they  lived 
and  worked  together  in  their  native  hut  by  Khatsua's  village, 


I 


lii 


1! 


' 


192 


WHAT  S   BRED    IN    THE   HONE. 


a  change  began  slowly,  bu:  irresistibly,  to  come  over  Gran- 
ville Kelmscott's  feelings  toward  his  unacknowledged  half- 
brother.  At  first,  it  was  with  the  deepest  sense  of  distaste 
and  loathing  that  the  dispossessed  heir  found  himself  compelled 
to  associate  with  Guy  Waring  in  such  close  companionship; 
but  bit  by  bit,  as  they  saw  more  and  more  of  one  another, 
this  feeling  of  distaste  began  to  wear  off  piecemeal.  Gran- 
ville Kelmscott  was  more  than  half-ashamed  to  admit  it,  even 
to  himself,  but  in  process  of  time  he  really  almost  caught 
himself  beginning  to  like — well,  to  like  the  man  he  believed 
to  be  a  murderer.  It  was  shocking  and  horrible,  no  doubt;  but 
what  else  was  he  to  do?  Guy  formed  now  his  only  European 
society.  By  the  side  of  those  savage  Barolongs,  whose  chief 
thought  nothing  of  perpetrating  the  most  nameless  horrors 
before  their  very  eyes,  for  the  gratification  of  mere  freaks  of 
passion  or  jealousy,  a  European  murderer  of  the  gentlemanly 
class  seemed  almost,  by  comparison,  a  mild  and  gentle  per- 
sonage. Granville  hardly  liked  to  allow  it  in  his  own  mind, 
but  it  was  nevertheless  the  case;  he  was  getting  positively 
fond  of  this  man  Guy  Waring. 

Besides,  blood  is  generally  thicker  than  water.  Living  in 
such  close  daily  communion  with  Guy,  and  talking  with  him 
unrestrainedly,  at  last,  upon  all  possible  point,; — save  that 
one  unapproachable  one  which  both  seemed  to  instinctively 
avoid  alluding  to  in  any  way — Granville  began  to  feel  that, 
murderer  or  no  murderer,  Guy  was  in  all  essentials  very  near 
indeed  to  him.  Nay,  more,  he  found  himself  at  times  actually 
arguing  the  point  with  his  own  conscience  that,  after  all,  Guy 
was  a  very  good  sort  of  fellow;  and  if  ever  he  had  murdered 
Moniague  Nevitt  at  all — which  looked  very  probable — he 
must  have  murdered  him  under  considerably  extenuating 
circumstances. 

There  was  only  one  thing  about  Guy  that  Granville  didn't 
like  when  he  got  to  know  him.  This  homicidal  half-brother 
of  his  was  gentle  as  a  woman;  tender,  kind-h«arted,  truthful, 
affectionate;  a  gentleman  to  the  core,  and  a  jolly  good  fellow 
into  the  bargain;  but — there's  always  a  but — he  was  a  terri- 
ble money-grubber!  Even  there  in  the  lost  heart  of  Africa, 
at  such  a  distance  from  home,  with  so  little  chance  of  ever 
making  any  use  of  his  hoarded  wealth,  the  fellow  used  to  hunt 
up  those  wretched  small  stones,  and  wear  them  night  and  day 
in  a  belt  round  his  waist,  as  if  he  really  loved  them  for  their 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


193 


leir 


own  mere  sakes — dirty,  high-priced  little  baubles!  Granville, 
for  his  part,  couldn't  bear  to  see  such  ingrained  love  of  pelf. 
It  was  miserable;  it  was  mercenary. 

To  be  sure,  he  himself  hunted  diamonds  every  day  of  his 
life  just  as  hard  as  Guy  did;  there  was  nothing  else  to  do  in 
this  detestable  place,  and  a  man  must  find  something  to  turn 
his  idle  hands  to.  Also,  he  carried  them,  like  Guy,  bound  up 
in  a  girdle  round  his  own  waist;  it  was  a  pity  they  should  be 
lost,  if  ever  he  should  chance  to  get  away  safe  in  the  end  to 
England.  But  then,  don't  you  see,  the  cases  were  so  dif- 
ferent, (fuy  hoarded  up  his  diamonds  for  mere  wretched 
gain;  whereas  Granville  valued  his  (he  said  to  himself  often), 
not  for  the  mere  worth  in  money  of  those  shimmering  little 
trinkets,  but  for  his  mother's  sake,  and  Gwendoline's,  and  the 
credit  of  the  family.  He  wanted  Lady  Emily  to  see  her  son 
filling  the  place  in  the  world  she  had  always  looked  forward 
with  hope  to  his  filling;  and  by  heaven's  help,  he  thought,  he 
could  still  fill  it.  He  couldn't  marry  Gwendoline  on  a  beg- 
gar's pittance;  and  by  heaven's  help,  he  hoped  still  to  be  able 
to  marry  her. 

Guy,  on  the  other  hand,  found  himself  almost  equally  sur- 
prised, in  turn,  at  the  rapid  way  he  grew  really  to  be  fond  of 
Granville  Kelmscott.  Though  Kelmscott  knew  (as  he 
thought)  the  terrible  secret  of  his  half-unconscious  crime — for 
he  could  feel  now  how  completely  he  had  acted  under  Mon- 
tague Nevitt's  compelling  influence — Guy  was  aware  before 
long  of  such  a  profound  and  deep-seated  sympathy  existing 
between  them,  that  hs  became  exceedingly  attached,  in  time, 
to  his  friendly  fellow-prisoner.  In  spite  of  the  one  barrier 
they  could  never  break  down,  he  spoke  freely,  by  degrees,  to 
Granville  of  everything  else  in  his  whole  life;  and  Granville 
in  return  spoke  to  him  just  rs  freely.  A  good  fellow,  Gran- 
ville, when  you  got  to  know  him.  There  was  only  a  single 
trait  in  his  character  Guy  couldn't  endure;  and  that  was  his 
ingrained  love  of  money-grubbing.  For  the  way  the  man 
pounced  down  upon  those  dirty  little  stones  when  he  saw 
them  in  the  mud,  and  hoarded  them  up  in  his  belt,  and  seemed 
prepared  to  defend  them  with  his  very  life-blood,  Guy  couldn't 
conceal  from  himself  the  fact  that  he  fairly  despised  him. 
Such  vulgar,  commonplace,  unredeemed  love  of  pelf!  Such 
mere  bourgeois  avarice!  Of  what  use  could  those  wretched  peb- 
bles be  to  him  here  in  the  dusty  plains  of  far-inland  Africa? 


!(' 


fl,: 


: 


n 


194 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


Guy  himself  kept  close  count  of  his  finds,  to  be  sure;  but 
then,  the  cases,  don't  you  see,  were  so  different!  He  wanted 
his  diamonds  to  discharge  the  great  debt  of  his  life  to  Cyril, 
and  to  appear  an  honest  man,  rehabilitated  once  more  before 
the  brother  he  had  so  deeply  wronged  and  humiliated; 
whereas  Granville  Kelmscott,  a  rich  man's  son,  and  the  heir 
to  a  great  estate  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice — that  he 
should  have  come  risking  his  life  in  these  savage  wilds  for 
mere  increase  of  superfluous  wealth,  why,  it  was  simply 
despicable! 

So  eighteen  months  wore  away  in  mutual  friendship,  tem- 
pered to  a  certain  degree  by  mutua'  contempt;  and  little 
chance  of  escape  came  to  the  captives  in  Barolong  land. 

At  last,  as  the  second  winter  came  round  once  more,  for 
two  or  three  weeks  the  Englishmen  in  their  huts  began  to 
perceive  that  much  bustle  and  confusion  was  going  on  all 
around  in  King  Khatsua's  dominions.  Preparations  for  a  war 
on  a  considerable  scale  were  clearly  taking  place.  Men 
mustered  daily  on  the  dusty  plain  with  fire-arms  and  assegais. 
Much  pomb6  was  drunk;  many  palavers  took  place ;^a  con- 
stant drumming  of  gongs  and  tom-toms  disturbed  their  ears 
by  day  and  by  night.  The  Englishmen  concluded  some  big 
marauding  expedition  was  in  contemplation;  and  they  were 
quite  right.  King  Khatsua  was  about  to  concentrate  his 
forces  for  an  attack  on  a  neighboring  black  monarch,  as 
powerful  and  perhaps  as  cruel  as  himself,  Montisive  of  the 
Bush  Veldt. 

Slowly  the  preparations  went  on  all  around.  Then  the  great 
day  came  at  last,  and  King  Khatsua  set  forth  on  his  mighty 
campaign,  to  the  sound  of  big  drums  and  the  blare  of  native 
trumpets. 

When  the  warriors  had  marched  out  of  the  villages  on  their 
way  northward  to  the  war,  Guy  saw  the  two  prisoners'  chance 
of  escape  had  arrived  in  earnest.  They  were  guarded  as  usual, 
of  course,  but  not  so  strictly  as  before;  and  during  the  night, 
in  particular,  Guy  noticed,  with  pleasure,  little  watch  was  now 
kept  upon  them.  The  savage,  indeed,  can't  hold  two  ideas  in 
his  head  at  once.  If  he's  making  war  on  his  neighbor  on  one 
side,  he  has  no  room  left  to  think  of  guarding  his  prisoners  on 
the  other. 

**  To-night,"  Guy  said,  one  evening,  as  they  sat  together  in 
their  hut  over  their  native  supper:  of  mealie  cakes  and  spring- 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


195 


little 


ther  in 
jpring- 


bok  venison,  "we  must  make  a  bold  stroke.  We  must  creep 
out  of  the  kraal  as  well  as  we  can,  and  go  for  the  sea  west- 
ward, through  Namaqua  land  to  Angra  Pequena." 

"Westward?"  Granville  answered  very  dubiously.  "But 
why  westward,  Waring?  Surely  our  shortest  way  to  the  coast 
is  down  to  Kimberley,  and  so  on  to  the  Cape.  It'll  take  us 
weeks  and  weeks  to  reach  the  sea,  won't  it,  by  wav  of  Namaqua 
land?" 

"  No  matter  for  that,"  Guy  replied,  with  confidence.  He 
knew  the  map  pretty  well,  and  had  thought  it  all  over.  "  As 
soon  as  the  Barolong  miss  us  in  the  morning,  they'll  naturally 
think  we've  gone  south,  as  you  say,  toward  our  own  people. 
So  they'll  pursue  us  in  that  direction  ana  try  to  take  us;  and 
if  they  were  to  catch  us  after  we'd  once  run  away,  you  may  be 
sure  they'd  kill  us  as  soon  as  look  at  us.  But  it  would  never 
occur  to  them,  don't  you  see,  we  were  going  away  west.  They 
won't  follow  us  that  way.  So  west  we'll  go,  and  strike  out  for 
the  sea,  as  I  say,  at  Angra  Pequena." 

They  sat  up  through  the  night  discussing  plans,  low  to  them- 
selves in  the  dark,  till  nearly  two  in  the  morning.  Then,  when 
all  was  silent  around,  and  the  Barolong  slept,  they  stole  quietly 
out,  and  began  their  long  march  across  the  country  to  west- 
ward. Each  man  had  his  diamonds  tied  tightly  round  his 
waist,  and  his  revolver  at  his  belt.  They  were  prepared  to 
face  every  unknown  danger. 

Crawling  past  the  native  huts  with  very  cautious  steps, 
they  made  for  the  open,  and  emerged  from  the  village  on  to 
the  heights  that  bounded  the  valley  of  the  Lugura.  They  had 
proceeded  in  this  direction  for  more  than  an  hour,  walking  as 
hard  as  their  legs  would  carry  them,  when  the  sound  of  a  man 
running  fast,  but  barefoot,  fell  on  their  ears  from  behind  in  a 
regular  pit-a-pat.  Guy  looked  back  in  dismay,  and  saw  a 
naked  Barolong  just  silhouetted  against  the  pale  sky  on  the 
top  of  a  long,  low  ridge  they  had  lately  crossed  over.  At  the 
very  same  instant  Granville  raised  his  revolver  and  pointed  it 
at  the  man,  who  evidently  had  not  yet  perceived  them.  With 
a  sudden  gesture  of  horror,  Guy  knocked  down  his  hand  and 
prevented  his  taking  aim. 

"  Don't  shoot,"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  of  surprised  dismay  and 
disapproval.  "  We  mustn't  take  his  life.  How  do  we  know 
he's  an  enemy  at  all?    He  mayn't  be  pursuing  us." 

«  Best  shoot  on  spec  anyway,"  Granville  answered,  somc- 


.'?' 


'\: 


I  .  ' 


,t 


tl- 


1 


196 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN   THE    BONE. 


what  discomposed.  "All's  fair  in  war.  The  fellow's  after  us, 
no  doubt.  And  at  any  rate,  if  he  sees  us,  he  may  go  and 
report  our  whereabouts  to  the  village." 

**  What?  shoot  an  unarmed  man  who  shows  no  signs  of  hos- 
tility! Why,  it  would  be  sheer  murder,"  Guy  cried  with  some 
horror.  "We  mustn't  make  our  retreat. on  M^j<?  principles, 
Kelmscott;  it'd  be  quite  indefensible.  I  decline  to  fire  except 
when  we're  attacked.  I  won't  be  any  party,  myself,  to  need- 
less bloodshed." 

(jranville  Kelmscott  gazed  at  him,  there  in  the  gray  dawn, 
in  unspeakable  surprise.  Not  shoot  at  a  negro!  In  such 
straits,  too,  as  theirs!  And  this  rebuke  had  come  to  him — 
from  the  mouth  of  the  murderer! 

Turn  it  over  as  he  might,  Granville  couldn't  understand  it. 

The  Barolong  ran  along  an  the  crest  of  the  ridge,  still  at 
the  top  of  his  speed,  without  seeming  to  notice  them  in 
the  gloom  of  the  valley.  Presently  he  disappeard  over  the 
edge  to  southward.  Guy  was  right,  after  all.  He  wasn't 
in  pursuit  of  them.  More  likely  he  was  only  a  runaway 
slave,  taking  advantage,  like  themselves,  of  King  Khatsua's 
absence. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


PERILS  BY    THE  WAY. 


Three  weeks  later,  two  torn  and  tattered,  half-starved  Euro- 
peans sat  under  a  burning  South  African  sun  by  the  dry  bed 
of  a  shrunken  summer  torrent.  It  was  in  the  depths  of  Nam- 
aqua  land,  among  the  stony  Karoo;  and  the  fugitives  were 
straggling  helplessly  and  hopelessly  seaward,  thirsty  and 
weary,  through  a  half-hostile  country,  making  their  marches 
as  best  they  could  at  dead  of  night  and  resting  by  day  where 
the  natives  would  permit  them. 

Their  commissariat  had  indeed  been  a  lean  and  hungry  one. 
Though  they  carried  many  thousand  pounds'  worth  of  dia- 
monds about  their  persons,  they  had  nothing  negotiable  with 
which  to  buy  food  or  shelter  from  the  uncivilized  Namaquas. 
Ivory,  cloth,  and  beads  were  the  currency  of  the  country.  No 
native  thereabout  would  look  for  a  moment  at  their  little 
round  nobs  of  water-worn  pebbles,    The  fame  of  the  dia- 


i' 


what's   IIRED    IN    THE    BONE. 


i9r 


mond-fields  liad  't  penetrated  as  yet  so  far  west  in  the  land  as 
to  have  reached  to  the  huts  of  the  savage  Namaquas. 

And  now  their  staying-power  was  almost  worn  out.  Gran- 
ville Kelmscott  lay  down  on  the  sandy  soil  with  a  wild  gest- 
ure of  despair.  All  around  were  bare  rocks  and  the  dry, 
sweltering  veldts,  covered  only  with  round  stones  and  red 
sand  and  low,  bushy  vegetation. 

"  Waring,"  he  said,  feebly,  in  a  very  faint  voice,  "  I  wish 
you'd  leave  me  and  go  on  by  yourself.  I'm  no  good  any 
more.  I'm  only  a  drag  upon  you.  This  fever's  too  bad  for 
me  to  stand  much  longer.  I  can  never  pull  through  to  the 
coast  alive.  I've  no  energy  left,  were  it  even  to  try,  I'd  like 
to  lie  down  here  and  die  where  I  sit.     Do  go  and  leave  me." 

"Never!"  Guy  answered,  resolutely.  "I'll  never  desert 
you,  Kelmscott,  while  I've  a  drop  of  blood  left.  If  I  carry 
you  on  my  back  to  the  coast,  I'll  get  you  there  at  last,  or  else 
we'll  both  die  on  the  veldt  together." 

Granville  held  his  friend's  hand  in  his  own  fevered  fingers 
as  he  might  have  held  a  woman's. 

"  Oh,  Waring,"  he  cried  once  more,  in  a  voice  half-choked 
with  profound  emotion,  "I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you 
enough  for  all  ycu've  done  to  me.  You've  behaved  to  me 
like  a  brother — like  a  brother  indeed.  It  makes  me  ashamed 
to  think,  when  I  see  how  unselfish,  and  good,  and  kind  you've 
been — ashamed  to  think  I  once  distrusted  you.  You've  been 
an  angel  to  me  all  through.  Without  you,  I  don't  know  how 
I  could  ever  have  lived  on  through  this  journey  at  all.  And 
I  can't  bear  to  feel  now  I  may  spoil  your  retreat — can't  bear 
to  know  I'm  a  drag  and  burden  to  you." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  Guy  said,  holding  the  thin  and  fevered 
hand  very  tenderly  in  his,  "don't  talk  to  me  like  that.  I  feel 
to  you  every  bit  as  you  feel  to  me  in  this  matter.  I  was  afraid 
of  you  at  first,  because  I  knew  you  misunderstood  me;  but 
the  more  I've  seen  of  you,  the  better  we've  each  of  us  learned 
to  sympathize  with  the  other.  We've  long  been  friends.  I 
love  you  now,  as  you  say,  like  a  brother." 

Granville  hesitated  for  a  moment.  Should  he  out  with,  it  or 
not?  Then,  at  last,  the  whole  long-suppressed  truth  came  out 
with  a  burst.  He  seized  his  companion's  two  hands  at  once 
in  a  convulsive  grasp. 

"That's  not  surprising,  either,"  he  said,  "after  all — for, 
Guy,  do  you  know,  we  are  really  brothers  I " 


II 


% 


I., 


f 
\ 


:. 


198 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


Ij 


V  ' 


i; 


a  morr  ?nt  he 
Then  slowly 


Guy  gazed  at  him  in  astonishment.  For 
thought  his  friend's  reason  was  giving  way. 
and  gradually  he  took  it  all  in. 

"  Are  really  brothers  !  "  he  repeated,  in  a  dazed  sort  of  way. 
"Do  you  mean  it,  Kelmscott?  Then  my  father  and 
Cyril's—" 

"Was  mine,  too.  Waring.  Yes;  I  couldn't  bear  to  die  with- 
out telling  you  that.  And  I  tell  it  now  to  you.  You  two  are 
the  heirs  of  the  Tilgate  estates.  And  the  unknown  person 
who  paid  six  thousand  pounds  to  Cyril,  just  before  you  left 
England,  was  your  father  and  mine,  Colonel  Henry  Kelm- 
scott." 

Guy  bent  over  him  for  a  few  seconds  in  speechless  surprise. 
Words  failed  him  at  first.  "  How  do  you  know  all  this,  Kelm- 
scott  ? "  he  said  at  last,  faintly. 

Granville  told  him  in  as  few  words  as  possible  —  for  indeed, 
he  was  desperately  weak  and  ill  —  by  what  accident  he  had 
discovered  his  father's  secret.  But  he  told  him  only  what  he 
knew  himself;  for,  of  course,  he  was  ignorant  as  yet  of  the 
Colonel's  seizure  and  sudden  death  on  the  very  day  after  they 
had  sailed  from  England. 

Guy  listened  to  it  all  in  profound  silence.  It  was  a  strange, 
and  for  him  a  momentous  tale.  Then  he  said  at  last,  as 
Granville  finished,  "  And  you  never  told  me  this  all  these  long 
months,  Kelmscott." 

"  I  always  meant  to  tell  you,  Guy,"  his  half-brother 
answered,  i^  a  sudden  fit  of  penitence.  "  I  always  meant  in 
the  end  you  and  your  brother  Cyril  should  come  into  your 
own  at  Tilgate  as  you  ought.     I  was  only  waiting — " 

"  Till  you'd  realized  enough  to  make  good  some  part  of 
your  personal  loss,"  Guy  suggested,  not  unkindly. 

"  Oh,  no,"  Granville  answered,  flushing  at  the  suggestion. 
"  I  wasn't  waiting  for  that.  Don't  think  me  so  mercenary.  I 
was  waiting  ior you,  in  your  turn,  to  extend  to  me  your  own 
personal  confidence.  You  know,  Guy,"  he  went  on,  dropping 
mto  a  still  more  hushed  and  solemn  undertone,  "  I  saw  an 
evening  paper  the  night  we  left  Plymouth  — " 

"  Oh,  I  know,  I  know,"  Guy  cried,  interrupting  him,  with  a 
very  pale  face.  Don't  speak  to  me  of  that.  I  can't  bear  to 
think  of  it.  Kelmscott,  I  was  mad  when  I  did  that  deed.  I 
wasn't  myself.  I  acted  under  somebody  else's  compulsion  and 
influence.    The  man  had  a  sort  of  hypnotic  power  over  my 


what's  bred  in  the  nONE. 


199 


V»i 


will,  I  believe.  I  couldn't  help  doing  whatever  he  ordered  me; 
it  was  he  who  suggested  it;  it  was  he  that  did  it;  and  it's 
he  who  was  really  and  truly  guilty."  ^^ 

"And  who  was  that  man?"  Granville  Kelmscott  asked,  with 
some  little  curiosity. 

"There's  no  reason  I  shouldn't  tell  you,"  Guy  answered, 
"now  we've  once  broken  the  ice;  and  I'm  glad  in  my  heart,  I 
must  say,  that  we've  broken  it.  For  a  year  and  a  half,  day 
and  night,  that  barrier  has  been  raised  between  us  always,  and 
I've  longed  to  get  rid  of  it;  but  I  was  afraid  to  speak  of  it  to 
you,  and  you  to  me.  Well,  the  man,  if  you  must  know,  was 
Montague  Nevitt!" 

Granville  Kelmscott  looked  up  at  him  in  incredulous  sur- 
prise; but  he  was  too  ill  and  weak  to  ask  the  meaning  of 
this  riddle.  Montague  Nevitt!  What  on  earth  could  Waring 
mean  by  that?  How  on  earth  could  Montague  Nevitt  have 
influenced  and  directed  him  in  assaulting  and  murdering  Mon- 
tague Nevitt? 

For  a  long  time  there  was  silence.  Each  brother  was  think- 
ing his  own  thoughts  to  himself  about  this  double  disclosure. 
At  last  Granville  lifted  his  head  and  spoke  again. 

"And  you'll  go  home  to  England  now,"  he  said,  "under  an 
assumed  name,  I  suppose;  and  arrange  with  your  brother 
Cyril  for  him  to  claim  the  Kelmscott  estates,  and  allow  you 
something  out  of  them  in  retirement  somewhere?" 

"Oh,  no,"  Guy  answered,  manfully.  "  I'm  going  home  to 
England  now,  if  I  go  at  all,  under  my  own  proper  name  that 
I've  always  borne,  to  repay  Cyril  in  full  every  penny  I  owe 
him,  to  make  what  reparation  I  can  for  the  wrong  I've  done, 
and  to  give  myself  up  to  the  police  for  trial." 

Granville  gazed  at  him,  more  surprised  and  more  admiring 
than  ever. 

"You're  a  brave  man,  Waring,"  he  said,  slowly.  "I  don't 
understand  it  at  all,  but  I  know  you're  right;  and  I  almost 
believe  you.  I  almost  believe  it  was  not  your  fault.  I  should 
like  to  get  through  to  England,  after  all,  if  it  was  only  to  see 
you  safe  out  of  your  troubles."  ^ 

Guy  looked  at  him  fixedly. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  in  a  compassionate  tone,  "you 
mustn't  talk  any  more.  You've  talked  a  great  deal  too  much 
already.  I  see  a  hut,  I  fancy,  over  yonder,  beside  that  dark 
patch  of  brush.    Now,  you  must  do  exactly  as  I  bid  you. 


I 


300 


WIIAI'  S    IIKI.I)    IN     1  MK    IU)NK. 


Wn\'{  struggle  or  kick,  l.lc  as  still  as  you  can.  Ti!  cany 
you  there  on  my  back,  and  then  we'll  sec  if  we  can  get  you 
anyhow  a  drop  of  pure  water." 


CHAPrER  XXXVI. 


DKSKRTEn. 


That  was  almost  the  last  thing  Ciranville  Kclmscott  knew. 
Some  strange,  sliaddwy  drc  uns,  to  be  sure,  disturbed  the  leth- 
argy into  wliich  he  fell  soon  after,  but  they  were  intermittent 
and  indefinite.  He  was  vaguely  aware  of  being  lifted  with 
gentle  care  into  somebody's  artns,  and  of  the  somebody  stag- 
gering along  with  him,  nv)t  without  considerable  difllculty, 
over  the  rough,  stouy  ground  of  that  South  African  plateau. 
He  remembered,  also,  as  in  a  tr.ince,  some  sound  of  angry 
voices — a  loud  expostulation — a  hasty  palaver — a  long,  slow 
pause — a  gradual  sense  of  reconciliation  and  friendliness — 
during  all  whicli,  as  far  as  he  could  recover  the  circumstances 
afterward,  he  must  have  been  extended  on  the  earth,  with  his 
back  propped  against  a  great  ledge  «)f  jutting  rock,  and  his 
head  hanging  listless  on  his  sinking  breast.  Thenceforward 
all  was  blank,  or  just  dimly  perceived  at  long  interval.s,  be- 
tween delirium  and  unconsciousness.  He  was  ill  for  many 
days,  where  or  how  he  knew  not. 

In  some  half-dreamy  way  he  was  aware,  too,  now  and  again, 
of  strange  voices  by  his  side,  vStrange  faces  tending  him;  but 
they  were  black  faces  all,  and  the  voices  spoke  in  deep,  gut- 
tural tones,  unlike  even  the  clicks  and  harsh  Bantu  jerks  with 
which  he  had  grown  so  familiar  in  eighteen  months  among  ihe 
Barolong.  This  that  he  heard  now,  or  seemed  to  hear  in  his 
delirium,  like  distant  sounds  of  water,  was  a  wholly  different 
and  very  much  harsher  tongue — the  tongue  of  the  Namaquas, 
in  fact,  though  Granville  was  far  too  ill  ?nd  too  drowsy  just 
then  to  think  of  reasoning  about  it  or  classifying  it  in  any 
way.  All  he  knew  for  the  moment  was  that  sometimes,  when 
he  turned  round  feebly  on  his  bed  of  straw,  and  asked  for 
drink  or  help  in  a  faltering  voice,  no  white  man  appeared  to 
answer  his  summons.  Black  faces  all — black,  black,  and 
unfamiliar.     Very  intermittently  he  was  conscious  of  a  faint 


I 


WHA  1  B   ilKUD   IN    THK    HONK. 


;doi 


sense  of  loncHncM.     He  knew  not  wliy;   but  ho  llioiiglit  lie 
could  K*Jt:sH — Cliiy  Waring  had  deserted  him. 

At  hiHt,  one  inornintf,  uacr  more  days  had  passed  than 
Granville  could  poHsibly  count,  all  of  a  sudden,  in  a  wild 
whirl,  he  came  to  himself  again  at  once,  with  that  instant  re- 
vulsion of  complete  awakeiiing  which  often  occurs  at  the  rnd 
of  long  fits  of  delirium  in  malarious  fever.  A  light  hurst  in 
upon  him  with  a  Hash.  In  a  moment  his  brain  Hccmcd  to 
clear  all  at  once,  and  everything  to  grow  plain  as  day  beiorc 
him.  lie  raised  himself  on  one  wasted  elbow  and  gazed 
around  him  with  profound  awe.  He  saw  it  all  now;  he 
remembered  everything,  everything. 

He  was  alone  among  savages  in  the  far  heart  of  Africa. 

He  lay  on  his  back,  on  a  heap  of  fresh  straw,  in  a  close  and 
fdthy  mud-built  hut.  Under  his  aching  neck  a  wooden  pillow 
or  prop  of  native  make  sup|)orted  his  head.  Two  women  and 
a  man  bent  over  him  and  smiled.  Their  faces,  though  black, 
were  far  from  unkindly.  They  were  pleased  to  see  hirn  stare 
about  with  such  meaning  in  his  eyes,  'I'liey  were  friendly,  no 
doubt.  They  seemed  really  to  lake  an  interest  in  their 
patient's  recovery. 

But  where  was  (luy  Waring?  Dead?  Dead?  C)r  run  away? 
Had  his  half-brother,  in  this  utmost  need,  then,  so  basely 
deserted  him? 

For  some  minutes  Granville  gazed  around  him,  half-dazed, 
and  in  a  turmoil  of  surprise,  yet  with  a  vivid  passion  of  acute 
inquiry.  Now  he  was  once  well  awake  he  must  know  all  im- 
mediately. But  how?  Whom  to  ask?  This  was  terrible, 
terrible!  He  had  no  means  of  inter-communication  with 
the  people  in  the  hut.  He  knew  none  of  their  language, 
nor  they  of  his.  He  was  utterly  alone,  among  unmitigated 
savages. 

Meanwhile,  the  man  and  the  women  talked  loud  among 
themselves  in  their  own  harsh  speech,  evidently  well  pleased 
and  satisfied  at  their  guest's  improvement.  With  a  violent 
effort,  Granville  began  to  communicate  with  ther.i  in  the  lan- 
guage of  signs,  which  every  savage  knows  as  he  knows  his 
native  tongue,  and  in  which  the  two  Englishmen  had  already 
made  some  progress  during  their  stay  in  Barolong  land. 

Pointing  first  to  himself,  with  one  hand  on  his  Lreast,  he 
iuid  up  two  fingers  l)efore  the  observant  Namaqua,  to  indicate 
tiiat  at  first  there  had  been  a  couple  of  them  on  the  road,  both 


202 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


i  i 


I 


3t   f 


i     * 


I  •. 


white  men.  The  latter  point  he  still  further  elaborated  by 
showing  the  white  skin  on  his  own  bare  wrist,  and  once  more 
holding  up  the  two  fingers  demonstratively.  The  Namaqua 
nodded.  He  had  seized  the  point  well.  He  held  up  two 
fingers  in  return  himself;  then  looke^'l  at  his  own  black  wrist 
and  shook  his  head  in  dissent — they  were  not  black  men;  after 
which  he  touched  Granville's  fair  forearm  with  his  hand;  yes, 
yes,  just  so;  he  took  it  in;  two  white  men. 

What  had  become  of  the  other  one?  Granville  asked,  in  the 
same  fashion,  by  looking  around  him  on  all  sides  in  dumb 
show,  inquiringly.  One  finger  only  was  held  up  now,  pointing 
about  the  hut;  one  hand  was  laid  upon  his  own  breast  to 
show  that  a  single  white  man  alone  remained.  He  g^'anced 
about  him  uneasily.     What  had  happened   to  his  companion? 

The  Namaqua  pointed  with  his  finger  to  the  door  of  the 
hut,  as  much  as  to  say  the  other  man  was  gone.  He  seized 
every  sign  at  once  with  true  savage  quickness. 

Then  Granville  tried  once  more.  Was  his  companion  dead? 
Had  he  been  killed  in  a  fight?  Was  that  the  reason  of  his 
absence?  He  lunged  forward  with  his  hand  holding  an  imagi- 
nary assegai;  he  pressed  on  upon  the  foe;  he  drove  it 
through  a  body.  Then  he  fell,  as  if  dead,  on  the  floor,  with 
a  groan  and  a  shriek.  After  which,  picking  himself  up  as  well 
as  he  was  able,  and  crawling  back  to  his  straw,  he  proceeded 
in  mute  pantomime  to  bury  himself  decently. 

The  Namaqua  shocjk  his  head  again,  with  a  laugh  of  dis- 
sent. Oh,  no;  not  like  that.  It  had  happened  quite  other- 
wise. The  missing  white  man  was  well  and  vigorous;  a  slap 
on  his  own  chest  sufiiciently  indicated  that  news.  He  placed 
his  two  first  fingers  on  the  ground,  astride  like  legs,  and  made 
them  walk  along  fast,  one  in  front  of  the  other.  The  white 
man  hud  gone  away.  He  had  gone  on  foot.  Granville 
nodded  acquiescence.  The  savage  took  watei  in  a  calabash 
and  laid  it  on  the  floor.  Then  he  walked  once  more  with  his 
fingers,  as  if  on  a  long  and  weary  march,  to  the  water's  brink. 
Granville  nodded  comprehension  again.  He  understood  the 
signs.  The  white  man  had  gone  away,  alone,  on  foot — and 
seaward. 

At  that  instant,  with  a  sudden  cry  of  terror,  the  invalid's 
hands  went  down  to  his  waist,  where  he  wore  the  girdle  that 
contained  those  precious  diamonds — the  diamonds  that  were 
to  be  the  ransom  of  some  fraction  of  Tilgate.    An  awful 


r  ') 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


'^o;j 


sense  of  desertion  broke  over  him  all  at  once.  He  called 
aloud  in  his  horror.  It  was  too  much  to  believe.  The  girdle 
was  gone,  and  the  diamonds  with  it! 

Hypocrite!  Hypocrite!  Thief!  Murderer!  Robber!  He  had 
trusted  that  vile  creature,  that  plausible  wretch,  in  spite  of  all 
the  horrible  charges  he  knew  against  him.  And  this  was  the 
sequel  of  their  talk  that  day!  This  was  how  Guy  Waring  had 
requited  his  confidence. 

He  had  stolen  the  fruits  of  eighteen  months'  labor. 

Granville  turned  to  the  Namaqua,  wild  with  his  terrible 
loss,  and  pointed  angrily  to  his  loins,  where  the  diamonds  were 
not.  The  savage  nodded;  looked  wise  and  shook  his  head; 
pretended  to  gird  himself  round  the  waist  with  a  cloth;  then 
went  over  to  Granville,  who  lay  still  in  the  straw,  undid  an 
imaginary  belt  with  deliberate  care,  tied  it  round  his  own  body 
above  the  other  one  with  every  appeal  ance  of  prudence  and 
forethought,  counted  the  small  stones  in  it  one  by  one  in  his 
hand,  to  the  exact  number,  with  grotesque  fidelity,  and  finally 
set  his  fingers  to  walk  a  second  time  at  a  rapid  pace  in  the 
direction  of  the  calabash,  which  represented  the  ocean. 

Granville  fell  back  on  his  wooden  pillow  with  a  horrible 
groan  of  awakened  disgust.  The  man  had  gone  off,  that  was 
clear,  and  had  stolen  his  diamonds.  This  is  what  comes  of 
intrusting  your  life  and  property  to  a  discovered  murderer. 
How  could  he  ever  have  been  such  a  fool  ?  He  would  never 
forgive  himself. 

The  desertion  itself  was  bad  enough,  in  all  conscience;  but 
it  was  as  nothing  at  all,  in  Granville's  mind,  to  the  wickedness 
of  the  robbery. 

He  might  have  known  it,  of  course.  How  that  fellow  toiled 
and  moiled  and  gloated  over  his  wretched  diamonds!  How 
little  he  seemed  to  think  of  the  stain  of  blood  on  his  hands, 
and  how  much  of  the  mere  chance  of  making  filthy  lucre! 
Pah!  Pah!  it  was  pitiable.  The  man's  whole  mind  was  dis- 
torted by  a  hideous  fungoid  growth — the  love  of  gain,  which 
is  the  root  of  all  evil.  For  a  few  miserable  stones  he  would 
plunder  his  own  brother,  lying  helpless  and  ill  in  that  African 
hut,  and  make  off  with  the  booty  himself,  saving  his  own  skin, 
seaward. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  unrequited  kindness  of  these  mere 
savage  Namaqvias,  Granville  cried  to  himself  in  his  bitterness, 
he  might  have  died  of  want  in  the  open  desert.    And  now  he 


f. 


I    ■ 


204 


WHAT  S   BRED    IN    THE    BONE. 


would  go  down  to  the  coast,  after  aM,  a  ruined  man,  penniless 
and  friendless.  It  was  a  hard  thought  indeed  f or  a  Kelmscott 
to  think  he  should  have  been  abandoned  and  robbed  by  his 
own  half-brother,  and  should  owe  his  life  now  to  a  heathen 
African.  The  tender  mercies  of  a  naked  barbarian  in  a  mud- 
built  hut  were  better  than  the  false  friendship  of  his  father's 
son,  the  true  heir  of  Tilgate. 

It  was  miserable!  pitiable!  The  shock  of  that  discovery 
threw  Granville  back  once  more  into  a  profound  fever.  For 
several  hours  he  relapsed  into  delirium.  And  the  worst  of  it 
was,  the  negroes  wouldn't  let  him  die  quietly  in  his  own  plain 
way.  In  the  midst  of  it  all,  he  was  dimly  aware  of  a  dose 
thrust  down  his  throat.  It  was  the  Namaqua  administering 
him  a  pill — some  nauseous  native  decoction,  no  doubt — which 
tasted  as  if  it  were  made  of  stiff  white  paper. 


w 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

AUX    ARMES  ! 

For  a  day  or  two  more,  Granville  remained  seriously  ill  in 
the  dirty  hut.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  weak  and  wasted  as 
he  was,  he  insisted  on  getting  up  and  setting  out  alone  on 
his  long  march  seaward. 

It  was  a  wild  resolve.  He  was  utterly  unfit  for  it.  The 
hospitable  Namaqua,  whose  wives  had  nursed  him  well  through 
that  almost  hopeless  illness,  did  his  best  to  persuade  the  rash 
Englishman  from  so  mad  a  course,  by  gesture-;  and  entreaties, 
in  his  own  mute  language.  But  Granville  was  obstinate.  He 
would  noi  sit  down  quietly  and  be  robbed  like  this  of  the  fruit 
of  his  labors.  He  would  not  be  despoiled.  He  would  not  be 
trampled  upon.  He  would  make  for  the  coast,  if  he  staggered 
in  like  a  skeleton^  and  would  confront  the  robber  with  his  own 
vile  crime,  be  it  at  Angra  Pequena,  or  Cape  Town,  or  London, 
or  Tilgate.     . 

In  short,  he  would  do  much  as  Guy  himself  had  done  when 
he  discovered  Montague  Nevitt's  theft  of  the  six  thousand. 
He  would  follow  the  villain  till  he  ran  him  to  earth,  and 
would  tax  him  at  last  to  his  face  with  the  open  proofs  of  his 
consummate  treachery.    What's  bred  in  the  bone  will  out  in 


WHAT  S    iJRED    IN    THE    KONE. 


205 


Iwhen 
Isand. 
and 
ff  his 
iut  in 


the  blood.  The  Kelmscott  strain  worked  alike  its  own  way  in 
each  of  them. 

The  Namaqua,  to  be  sure,  tried  in  vain  to  explain  to  Gran- 
ville by  elaborate  signs  that  the  other  white  man  had  given 
orders  to  the  contrary.  The  other  white  man  had  strictly  en- 
joined upon  him  not  to  let  the  invalid  escape  from  his  hut  on 
any  pretext  whatever.  The  other  white  man  had  promised 
him  a  reward,  a  very  large  reward — money,  guns,  ammunition 
— if  he  kept  him  safely  and  didn't  allow  him  to  escape.  Gran- 
ville Kelmscott  smiled  to  himself  a  bitter,  cynical  smile.  Poor 
confiding  savage  !  He  didn't  know  Guy  as  well  as  he,  his 
brother,  did. 

And  yet,  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  in  spite  of  the  revulsion, 
Granville  was  conscious  now  and  then  of  some  little  ingrati- 
tude somewhere  to  his  half-Lrother's  memory.  After  all, 
Guy  had  shown  him  time  and  again  no  small  kindness.  Some 
excuse  should  be  made  for  a  man  who  saves  his  own  life  first 
in  very  dire  extremities.  But  none,  no,  none  for  one  who  has 
the  incredible  and  inhuman  meanness  to  rob  his  own  brother 
of  his  hard-earned  gains,  in  a  strange,  wild  land,  when  he 
thinks  him  dying. 

For  it  was  the  robbery,  not  the  desertion,  Granville  could 
never  forgive.  The  man  who  was  capable  of  doing  that 
basest  of  acts  was  capable  eilso  of  murder  or  any  crime  in  the 
decalogue. 

So  the  fevered  white  man  rose  at  last  one  morning  on  his 
shrunken  limbs,  and  staggered  as  best  he  might  from  his  pro- 
tector's hut,  in  a  wild  impuLe  of  resolution,  on  his  mad  journey 
seaward.  When  the  Namaqua  saw  nothing  on  earth  would 
induce  him  to  remain,  he  shouldered  his  arms  and  went  out 
beside  him,  fully  equipped  for  fight  with  matchlock  and  asse- 
gai. Not  that  the  savage  made  any  undue  pretense  to  a 
purely  personal  devotion  to  the  belated  white  man.  On  the 
contrary,  he  signified  to  Granville,  with  many  ingenious  signs, 
that  he  was  afraid  of  losing  the  great  reward  he  had  been 
promised,  if  once  he  let  the  invalid  get  out  of  his  sight  unat- 
tended. 

Granville  smiled  once  more  that  bitter  smile  of  new-born 
cynicism.  Well,  let  the  fellow  fellow  him  if  he  liked  !  He  would 
reward  him  himself  if  ever  they  reached  the  coast  in  safety. 
And,  in  any  case,  it  was  better  to  go  attended  by  a  native. 
An  interpreter,  who  can  communicate  in  their  own  tongue  with 


m 


306 


what's  hred  in  the  bone. 


ti  : 


'^! 


hi 


N. 


If 


,!1 


I: 


It 


the  people  through  whose  territory  you  are  going  to  pass,  is 
always  useful  in  a  savage  country. 

How  Granville  got  over  that  terrible  journey  seaward  he 
could  never  tell.  He  crawled  on  and  on,  supported  by  the 
faithful  Namaqua  with  unfailing  good-humor,  over  that  end- 
less veldt,  for  three  long  days  of  wretched,  foot-sore  marching. 
And  for  three  long  nights  he  slept,  or  lay  awake,  under  the 
clear  desert  stars,  on  the  open  ground  of  barren  Namaqua 
land.  It  was  a  terrible  time.  Worn  and  weary  with  the  fever, 
Granville  was  wholly  unfit  for  any  kind  of  traveling.  Nothing 
but  the  iron  constitution  of  the  Kelmscotts  could  ever  have 
stood  so  severe  an  ordeal.  But  the  son  of  six  generations  of 
soldiers,  who  had  commanded  in  the  fever-stricken  flats  of 
Walcheren,  or  followed  Wellesley  through  the  jungles  of  trop- 
ical India,  or  forced  their  way  with  Napier  into  the  depths  of 
Abyssinia,  was  not  to  be  daunted  even  by  the  nameless  horrors 
of  that  South  African  desert.  Granville  still  endured  for  three 
days  and  nights,  and  was  ready  to  march,  or  crawl,  on  once 
more  upon  the  fourth  morning. 

Here,  however,  his  Namaqua  guide,  with  every  appearance 
of  terror,  made  strong  warnings  of  danger.  The  country  be- 
yond, he  signified  by  strange  gestures,  lay  in  the  hands  of  a 
hostile  tribe,  hereditarily  at  war  with  his  own  fellow-clansmen. 
He  didn't  even  know  whether  the  other  white  man,  with  the 
diamonds  round  his  waist,  had  got  safe'y  through,  or  whether 
the  hostile  tribe  beyond  the  frontier  had  assegaied  him  and 
"  eaten  him  up,"  as  the  picturesque  native  phrase  goes.  It 
was  difficult  enough  for  even  a  strong  warrior  to  force  his  way 
through  that  district  with  a  good  comppny  of  followers;  im- 
possible for  a  single  weak  invalid  like  Granville,  attended  only 
by  one  poor  ill-armed  Namaqua. 

So  the  savage  seemed  to  say  in  his  ingenious  pantomime. 
If  they  went  on,  they'd  be  killed  and  eaten  up  resistlessly.  If 
they  stopped,  they  might  pull  through.  They  must  wait  and 
camp  there.  For  what  they  were  to  wait  Granville  hadn't  the 
faintest  conception;  but  the  Namaqua  insisted  upon  it,  and 
Granville  was  helpless  as  a  child  in  his  hands.  The  man  was 
alarmed,  apparently,  for  his  promised  reward.  If  Granville 
insisted,  he  showed  in  very  frank  dumb  show,  why — a  thrust 
with  the  assegai  explained  the  reft  most  persuasively.  Gran- 
ville still  had  his  revolver,  to  be  sure,  and  a  few  rounds  of 


WHATS   BRED   IN   THE   BONE. 


3207 


pass,  IS 

^ard  he 
by  the 
It  end- 
rching, 
der  the 
imaqua 
e  fever, 
lothing 
er  have 
Lions  of 
flats  of 
3f  trop- 
ipths  of 
horrors 
)r  three 
)n  once 

earance 
itry  be- 
ids  of  a 
insmen. 
rith  the 
vhether 
im  and 
)es.  It 
his  way 
rs;  im- 
d  only 

omime. 
ly.  If 
lit  and 
n't  the 
it,  and 
an  was 
anville 
thrust 
Gran- 
nds  of 


ball  cartridges;  but  he  was  too  weak  to  show  fight;  the  savage 
overmastered  him. 

They  were  seated  on  a  stony  ridge,  or  sharp  hogVback, 
overlooking  the  valley  of  a  dry  summer  stream.  The  water-shed 
on  which  they  sat  separated,  with  its  chine  of  rugged  rocks, 
the  territory  of  the  two  rival  tribes.  But  the  Namaqua  was 
evidently  very  little  afraid  that  the  enemy  might  transgress 
the  boundaries  of  his  fellow-tribesmen.  He  dared  not  himself 
go  beyond  the  jagged  crest  of  the  ridge;  but  he  seemed  to 
think  it  pretty  certain  the  people  of  the  other  tribe  wouldn't, 
for  their  part,  in  turn,  come  across  to  molest  him.  He  sat 
down  there  doggedly,  as  if  expecting  something  or  other  to 
turn  up  in  course  of  time;  and  more  than  once  he  made  signs 
to  Granville  which  the  Englishman  interpreted  to  mean  that 
after  so  many  days  and  nights  from  some  previous  event  un- 
I  specified,  somebody  would  arrive  on  the  track  from  the  coast 

'  at  the  point  of  junction  between  the  hostile  races  ! 

Granville  was  gazing  at  the  Namaqua  in  the  vain  attempt 
to  interpret  these  signs  more  fully  to  himself,  v/hen,  all  of  a 
sudden,  an  unexpected  noise  in  the  valley  below  attracted  his 
attention.  He  pricked  up  his  ears.  Impossible!  Incredible! 
It  couldn't  be — yes,  it  was — the  sharp  hiss  of  fire-arms! 

At  the  very  same  moment  the  Namaqua  leaped  to  his  feet  in 
sudden  alarm,  and,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  dusky  hand, 
gazed  intently  in  front  of  him.  For  a  minute  or  so  he  stood 
stiil,  with  brows  knit  and  neck  craning;  then  he  called  out 
something  in  an  excited  tone,  two  or  three  times  over,  in  his 
own  tongue,  to  Granville.  The  Englishman  stared  in  the 
same  direction,  but  could  make  out  nothing  definite  just  at 
first,  in  the  full  glare  of  the  sunlight.  But  the  Namaqua, 
with  a  cry  of  joy,  held  up  his  two  fingers  as  before,  to  symbol- 
ize the  two  white  men,  and  pointed  with  one  of  them  to  his 
guest,  while  with  the  other  he  indicated  some  object  in  the 
valley,  nodding  many  times  over.  Granville  seized  his  mean- 
ing at  once.  Could  it  be  true,  what  he  said  in  this  strange, 
mute  language?  Could  relief  be  at  hand?  Could  the  firing 
beneath  show  that  Guy  was  returning? 

As  he  looked  and  strained  his  eyes,  peering  down  upon  the 
red  plain,  under  the  shadow  of  his  open  palm,  the  objects  by 
the  water-course  grew  gradually  clearer.  Granville  could 
make  out  now  that  a  party  of  natives,  armed  with  spears  and 
matchlocks,  was  attacking  some  little  encampment  on  the 


208 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


bank  of  the  dry  to  rent.  The  small  force  in  the  encampment 
was  returning  the  fire  with  great  vigor  and  spirit,  though 
apparently  overpowered  by  the  superior  numbers  of  their 
swarming  assailants.  Even  as  Granville  looked,  their  case 
grew  more  desperate.  A  whole  horde  of  black  men  seemed 
to  be  making  an  onset  on  some  small,  white  object,  most  jeal- 
ously guarded,  round  which  the  defenders  of  the  camp  rallied 
with  infinite  energy.  At  the  head  of  the  little  band  of 
strangers,  a  European  in  a  pith  helmet  was  directing  the  fire, 
and  fighting  hard  himself  for  the  precious  white  object.  The 
rest  were  blacks,  he  thought,  in  half-civilized  costume.  Gran- 
ville's heart  gave  a  bound  as  the  leader  sprung  forth  upon  one 
approaching  savage.  His  action,  as  he  leaped,  stamped  the 
man  at  once.  Therr  was  Kelmscott  in  the  leap.  Granville 
knew  in  a  second  it  was  indeed  Guy  Waring. 

The  Namaqua  recognized  him,  too,  and  pointed  enthusias- 
tically forward.  Granville  saw  what  he  meant.  To  the  front! 
To  the  front!  If  there  was  fighting  to  be  done,  let  them  help 
their  friends.  Let  them  go  forward  and  claim  the  great 
reward  offered. 

Next  moment,  with  a  painful  thrill  of  shame  and  remorse, 
the  Englishman  saw  what  was  the  nature  of  the  object  they 
were  so  jealously  guarding.  His  heart  stood  still  within  him. 
It  was  a  sort  of  sedan  chair,  or  invalid-litter,  borne  on  poles 
by  four  native  porters.  Talk  about  coals  of  fire!  Granville 
Kelmscott  hardly  knew  how  to  forgive  himself  for  his 
unworthy  distrust.  Then  Guy  must  have  reached  the  coast 
in  safety,  after  leaving  him  in  charge  of  the  Namaqua  and 
fighting  his  way  through,  and  now  he  was  on  his  way  back  to 
the  interior  again,  with  a  sufficient  escort  and  a  palanquin  to 
fetch  him. 

Even  as  he  looked,  the  assailants  closed  in  more  fiercely 
than  ever  on  the  faltering  little  band.  One  of  them  thrust  out 
with  an  assegai  at  Guy.  In  an  agony  of  horror,  Granville 
cried  aloud  where  he  stood.  Surely,  surely,  they  must  be 
crushed  to  earth.  No  arms  of  precision  could  ever  avail  them 
against  such  a  swarm  of  assailants,  poured  forth  over  their 
camp  as  if  from  some  human  ant-hill. 

"  Let  us  run!  "  the  sick  man  cried  to  the  Namaqua,  pointing 
to  the  fight  below;  and  the  Namaqua,  comprehending  the 
gesture,  if  not  the  words,  set  forward  to  run  with  him  down 
Uie  slope  into  the  valley. 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN   THE   PONE. 


209 


At  about  a  hundred  yards  off  from  the  crowd,  Granville 
crouched  behind  a  clump  of  thorny  acacia,  and  signaling  to 
the  Namaqua  to  hide  at  the  same  time,  drew  his  revolver  and 
fired  point-blank  at  the  hindmost  natives. 

The  effect  was  electrical.  In  a  moment  the  savages  turned 
and  gazed  around  them  astonished.  One  of  their  number  was 
hit  and  wounded  in  the  leg.  Granville  had  aimed  so  pur- 
posely, to  maim  and  terrify  them.  The  natives  faltered  and 
fell  back.  As  they  did  so,  Granville  emerged  from  the  shelter 
of  the  acacia  bush,  and  fired  a  second  shot  from  another  pont 
at  them.  At  the  same  instant  the  Namaqua  raised  a  loud 
native  battle-cry,  and  brandished  his  assegai.  The  effect  was 
electrical.  The  hostile  t:  be  broke  up  in  wild  panic  at  once. 
They  cried  in  their  own  tongue  that  the  Namaquas  were  down 
upon  them,  under  English  guidance;  and,  quick  as  lightning, 
they  dispersed  as  if  by  magic,  to  hide  themselves  about  in  the 
thick  bush-jungle. 

Two  seconds  later  Guy  was  wringing  Granville's  hand  in  a 
fervor  of  gratitude.  Each  man  had  saved  the  other's  life.  In 
the  rapid  interchange  of  question  and  answer  that  followed, 
one  point  alone  puzzled  them  both  for  a  minute  or  two. 

'*  But  why  on  earth  didn't  you  leave  a  line  to  explain  what 
you'd  done?"  Granville  cried,  now  thoroughly  ashamed  of  his 
unbelief.  "  If  only  I'd  known  you  were  coming  back  to  the 
village,  it  would  have  saved  me  so  much  distress,  so  much 
sleepless  misery." 

"Why,  so  I  did,"  Guy  answered,  still  thoroughly  out  of 
breath,  and  stained  with  blood  and  powder.  "  I  tore  a  leaf 
from  my  note-book  and  gave  it  to  the  Namaqua,  explaining  to 
him  by  signs  that  he  was  to  let  you  have  it  at  once  the  moment 
you  were  conscious.  Here,  you,  sir,"  he  went  on,  turning  round 
to  their  faithful  black  ally,  and  holding  up  thenote-bookbefore 
his  eyes  to  refresh  his  memory,  "  why  didn't  you  give  it  to  the 
gentleman,  as  I  told  you? " 

The  Namaqua,  catching  hastily  at  the  meaning  from  the 
mere  tone  of  the  question,  as  well  as  from  Guy's  instinctive 
and  graphic  imitation  of  the  act  of  writing,  pulled  out  from 
his  waist-band  the  last  relics  of  a  very  brown  and  tattered  frag- 
ment of  paper,  on  which  were  still  legible  in  pencil  the  half- 
obliterated  words:  "My  dear  Granville — I  find  there  is  no 
chance  of  conveying  you  to  the  coast  through  the  territory  of 
the  next  tribe,  in  your  present  condition,  unless — '" 

14 


^ 


jt 


hi 


■'!. 


210 


WHAT  S   UREU    IX    THE    BONE. 


The  rest  was  torn  off.  Guy  looked  at  it  dubiously.  But  the 
Namaqua,  anxious  to  show  he  had  followed  out  all  instructions 
to  the  very  letter,  tore  off  the  next  scrap  before  their  eyes, 
rolled  it  between  his  palms  into  a  nice  greasy  p'll,  and  proceeded 
to  offer  it  for  Granville's  acceptance.  The  misapprehension 
was  too  absurd.  Guy  went  off  into  a  hearty  peal  of  laughter 
at  once.  The  Namaqua  had  taken  the  mysterious  signs  for 
"a  very  great  medicine,"  and  had  administered  the  magical 
paper  accordingly,  as  he  understood  himself  to  be  instructed, 
at  fixed  intervals,  to  his  unfortunate  patient.  That  was  the 
medicine  Granville  remembered  having  forced  down  his  throat 
at  the  moment  when  he  first  learned,  as  he  thought,  bis  half- 
brother's  treachery. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 


NEWS   FROM    THE   CAPE. 


At  the  Holkers,  at  Chetwood,  one  evening  some  days  later, 
Cyril  Waring  met  Elma  Clifford  once  more,  the  first  time  for 
months,  and  had  twenty  minutes'  talk  in  the  tea-room  alone 
with  her.  Contrary  to  his  rule,  he  had  gone  to  the  Holkers' 
party  that  night;  for  a  man  can't  remain  a  recluse  all  his  life, 
no  matter  how  hard  he  tries,  merely  because  his  brother's  sus- 
pected of  having  committed  a  murder.  In  course  of  time,  the 
attitude  palls  upon  him.  For  the  first  year  after  Guy's  sudden 
and  mysterious  disappearance,  indeed,  Cyril  refused  all  invita- 
tions point-blank,  except  from  the  most  intimate  friends.  The 
shame  and  disgrace  of  that  terrible  episode  weighed  him  down 
so  heavily  that  he  couldn't  bear  to  go  out  in  the  world  among 
unsympathetic  strangers. 

But  the  deepest  sorrow  wears  away  by  degrees,  and  at  the 
end  of  twelve  months  Cyril  found  he  could  mix  a  little  more 
unreservedly  at  last  among  his  fellow-men.  The  hang-dog  air 
sat  ill  upon  his  frank,  free  nature.  This  invitation  to  the 
Holkers,  too,  had  one  special  attraction:  he  knew  it  was  a 
house  where  he  was  almost  certain  of  meeting  Elma.  And 
siLce  Elma  insisted  now  on  writing  to  him  constantly — she  was 
a  self-willed  young  woman,  was  Elma,  and  would  have  her 
way — he  really  saw  no  reason  on  earth  himself  why  he  shouldn't 


-'-\.r^ 


But  the 
ructions 
eir  eyes, 
oceeded 
:hension 
laughter 
igns  for 
magical 
tructed, 

was  the 
is  throat 
kis  half- 


ys  later, 

time  for 

tn  alone 

iolkers* 

his  life, 

er's  sus- 

ime,  the 

sudden 

1  invita- 

s.    The 

down 

among 

at  the 
lie  more 
^dog  air 
to  the 
was  a 
And 
>he  was 
ive  her 
)uldn't 


WHAT  S   BRED    IX    THE    RONE. 


211 


meet  her.  To  meet  is  one  thing,  don't  you  know;  to  marry, 
anothc.  At  least,  so  fifty  generations  of  young  people  have 
deluded  themselves,  under  similar  circumstances,  into  believing. 

Elma  was  in  the  room  before  him,  prettier  than  ever,  people 
said,  in  the  pale  red  ball-dress  which  exactly  suited  her  ,2fypsy- 
like  eyes  and  creamy  complexion.  As  she  entered  she  .saw  Sir 
Gilbert  Gildersleeve,  with  his  wife  and  Gwendoline,  standing 
in  the  corner  by  the  big  piano.  Gwendoline  looked  pale  and 
preoccupied,  as  she  had  always  looked  since  Granville  Kelm- 
scott  disappeared,  leaving  behind  him  no  more  definite  address 
for  love-letters  than  simply  Africa;  and  Lady  Gildersleeve 
was,  as  usual,  quite  subdued  and  broken.  But  the  judge  him- 
self, consoled  by  his  new  honors,  seemed,  as  time  wore  on, 
to  have  recovered  a  trifle  of  his  old  blustering  manner.  A 
knighthood  had  reassured  him.  He  was  talking  to  Mr.  Holker 
in  a  loud  voice  as  Elma  approached  him  from  behind. 

"Yes,  a  very  curious  coincidence,"  he  was  just  saying,  in 
his  noisy  fashion,  with  one  big,  burly  hand  held  demonstra- 
tively before  him;  "a  very  curious  and  unexplained  coinci- 
dence. They  both  vanished  into  space  about  the  self-same  time, 
and  nothing  more  has  ever  since  been  heard  of  them.  Quite 
an  Arabian  Nights  affair,  in  its  way — the  enchanted  carpet 
sort  of  business,  don't  you  know — wafted  through  the  air 
unawares,  like  Sinbad  the  Sailor,  or  the  One-eyed  Calendar, 
from  London  to  Bagdad,  or  Timbuctoo,  or  St.  Petersburg. 
The  of/ier  young  man  one  understands  about,  of  course;  /le 
had  sufficient  reasons  of  his  own,  no  doubt,  for  leaving  a 
country  which  had  grown  too  warm  for  him.  But  that  Gran- 
ville Kelmscott,  a  gentleman  of  means,  the  heir  to  such  a  fine 
estate  as  T;  gate,  should  disappear  into  infinity,  leaving  no 
trace  behind,  like  a  lost  comet — and  at  the  very  moment,  too, 
when  he  was  just  about  to  come  into  the  family  property — 
why,  I  call  it— I  call  it— I  call  it—" 

His  jaw  dropped  suddenly.  He  grew  deadly  pale.  Words 
failed  his  stammering  tongue.  Do  what  he  would,  he  couldn't 
finish  his  sentence;  and  yet  nothing  very  serious  had  occurred 
to  him  in  any  way.  It  w:.s  merely  that,  as  he  uttered  these 
words,  he  caught  Elma  Clifford's  eye,  and  saw  lurking  in  it  a 
certain  gleam  of  deadly  contempt,  before  which  the  big, 
blustering  man  himself  had  quailed  more  than  once  in  many 
a  Surrey  drawing-room. 

t'or  Sir  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  knew  as  well  as  if  she  had  told 


■ 


>     ' 


Ivi 


,' 


i 


f 


I 


212 


WHAT  S   BRED    IN    THE    BONE. 


him  the  truth  in  so  many  words,  that  Elma  Clifford  suspected 
him  of  being  Montague  Nevitt's  murderer. 

Elma  came  forward,  just  to  break  the  awkward  pause,  and 
shook  hands  with  the  party  by  the  piano  coldly.  Sir  Gilbert 
tried  to  avoid  her,  but,  with  the  inherited  instinct  of  her  race, 
Elma  cut  off  his  retreat.  She  boxed  him  in  the  corner  between 
the  piano  and  the  wall, 

*'  I  heard  what  you  were  saying  just  now,  Sir  Gilbert,"  she 
murmured  low,  but  with  marked  emphasis,  after  a  few  polite 
commonplaces  of  conversation  had  first  passed  between  them, 
"and  I  want  to  ask  you  one  question  only  about  the  matter. 
A/r  you  so  sure  as  you  seeni  of  what  you  said  this  minute? 
Are  you  so  sure  that  Mr.  Guy  Waring  ^rt^sufficient  reasons  of 
his  own  for  wishing  to  leave  the  country?" 

Before  that  unflincliing  eye  the  great  lawyer  trembled,  as 
many  a  witness  had  trembled  of  old  under  his  own  cross-ex- 
amination. But  he  tried  to  pass  it  off  just  at  first  with  a  little 
society  banter.  He  bowed  and  smiled,  and  pretended  to  look 
arch — look  arch,  indeed,  with  that  ashen- white  face  of  hisi — 
as  he  answered,  with  forced  humor: 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  Mr.  Guy  Waring,  as  I  understand,  is 
Mr.  Cyril  Waring's  brother,  and  as  by  the  law  of  England  the 
King  can  do  no  wrong,  so  1  suppose — " 

Elma  cut  him  short  in  the  middle  of  his  sentence  with  an 
imperious  gesture.  He  had  never  cut  short  an  obnoxious  and 
obtruding  barrister  himself  with  more  crushing  dignity. 

"Mr.  Cyril  Waring  has  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  the  point, 
one  way  or  the  other,"  the  girl  said,  severely.  "Attend  to  my 
question.  What  I  ask  is  this,  Why  do  you,  a  judge  who  may 
one  day  be  called  upon  to  try  the  case,  venture  to  say,  on  such 
partial  evidence,  that  Mr.  Guy  Waring  had  sufficient  reasons 
of  his  own  for  leaving  the  country?  " 

Called  upon  to  try  Guy  Waring's  case!  The  judge  paused, 
abashed.  He  was  very  much  afraid  of  her.  This  girl  had 
such  a  strange  look  about  the  eyes,  she  made  him  tremble. 
People  said  the  Ewes  women  were  the  descendants  of  a  witch, 
and  there  was  something  truly  witch-like  in  the  way  Elma 
Clifford  looked  straight  down  into  his  eyes.  She  seemed  to 
see  into  his  very  soul.     He  knew  she  suspected  him. 

He  shuffled  and  temporized.  "  Well,  everybody  says  so,  you 
know,"  he  answered,  shrugging  his  shoulders  carelessly;  "and 


what's  bred  in  the  bonk. 


213 


what  everybody  says  must  be  true.  .  .  .  Besides,  if  he  didn't 
do  it,  who  did,  I  wonder?" 

Elma  pounced  upon  her  opportunity  with  a  woman's  quick- 
ness. **  Somebody  else  who  was  at  Mambury  that  day,  no 
doubt,"  she  replied,  with  a  meaning  look.  "  It  must  have 
been  somebody  out  of  the  few  who  were  at  Mambury." 

That  home-thrust  told.  The  judge's  color  was  livid  to  look 
upon.  What  could  this  girl  mean?  How  on  earth  could  she 
know?  How  had  she  even  found  out  he  was  at  Mambury  at 
all?  A  terrible  doubt  oppressed  his  soul.  Had  Gwendoline 
coniided  his  movements  to' Elma?  He  had  warned  his  daugh^ 
ter  time  and  again  not  to  mention  the  fact.  "  For  fear  of  mis- 
apprehension," he  said,  with  shuffling  eyes  askance,  "  it  was 
better  nobody  should  know  he  had  been  anywhere  near 
Dartmoor  on  the  day  of  the  accident." 

However,  there  was  one  consolation — the  law,  the  law! 
She  could  have  no  legal  proof,  and  intuition  goes  for  nothing 
in  a  court  of  justice.  All  the  suspicion  went  against  Guy 
Waring;  and  Guy  Waring — well,  Guy  Waring  had  fled  the 
kingdom  in  the  very  nick  of  time,  and  was  skulking  now — 
Heaven  alone  knew  where  or  why — in  the  remotest  depths  of 
some  far  African  diggings. 

And  even  as  he  thought  it,  the  servant  opened  the  door,  and, 
in  the  regulation  footman's  voice,  announced,  "  Mr.  Waring." 

The  judge  stared  afresh.  For  one  moment  his  senses 
deceived  him  sadly.  His  mind  was  naturally  full  of  Guy  just 
now;  and  as  the  servant  spoke,  he  sawa  handsome  young  man 
in  evening  dress  coming  up  the  long  drawing-room  with  the 
very  air  and  walk  of  the  man  he  had  met  that  eventful  after- 
noon at  the  "  Duke  of  Devonshire  "  at  Plymouth.  Of  course 
it  was  only  Cyril;  and  a  minute  later  the  judge  saw  his 
mistake,  and  remembered  with  a  bitter  smile  how  conscience 
makes  cowards  of  us  all,  as  he  had  often  remarked  about 
shaky  witnesses  in  his  admirable  perorations.  But  Elma 
hadn't  failed  to  notice  either  the  start  or  its  reason. 

"It's  only  Mr.  Cyril, '  she  said,  pointedly;  "not  Mr.  Guy, 
Sir  Gilbert.  The  name  came  very  pat,  though.  1  don't  won- 
der it  startled  you." 

She  was  crimson  herself.  The  judge  moved  away,  with  a 
stealthy,  uncomfortable  air.  He  didn't  half  care  for  this  un- 
canny young  woman.  A  girl  who  can  read  people's  thoughts 
like  that — a  girl  who  can  play  with  you  like  a  cat  with  a  mousei 


:| 


I' 


2U 


WHAl  S   BRF.D    IN    THE   BONE. 


;| 


!| 


1 1 


oughtn't  to  be  allowed  at  large  in  society.  She  should  be 
shut  up  in  a  cage  at  home,  like  a  dangerous  animal,  and  pre- 
vented from  spying  out  the  inmost  history  of  families. 

A  little  later  Elma  hadtwenty  minutes' talk  with  Cyril  alone. 
It  was  in  the  tea-room  behind,  where  the  light  refreshments 
were  laid  out  before  supper.     She  spoke  low  and  seriously. 

"Cyril,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  absolute  confidence  (they 
were  not  engaged,  of  course,  but  still  it  had  got  to  plain 
"Cyril"  and  "Elma"  by  this  time),  "I'm  surer  of  it  than 
ever,  no  matter  what  you  say.  Guy's  perfectly  innocent.  I 
know  it  as  certainly  as  I  know  my  own  name.  I  can't  be  mis- 
taken. And  the  man  who  really  did  it  is,  as  I  told  you,  Sir 
Gilbert  Gildersleeve." 

"  My  dear  child,"  Cyril  answered  (you  call  the  girl  you  are 
in  love  with  "  my  dear  child  "  when  you  mean  to  differ  from 
her,  with  an  air  of  masculine  superiority),  "  how  on  earth  can 
that  be,  when,  as  I  told  you,  I  have  Guy's  confession,  in  writ- 
hig,  under  his  own  very  hand,  that  he  really  did  it  ?" 

"  I  don't  care  a  pin  for  that,"  Elma  cried,  with  a  true 
woman's  contempt  for  anything  so  unimportant  as  mere  posi- 
tive evidence.     "  Perhaps  Sir  Gilbert  made  him  do  it  somehow 

—  compelled  him,  or  coerced  him,  or  willed  him,  or  something 

—  I  don't  understand  these  new  notions;  or  perhaps  he  got 
him  into  a  scrape,  and  then  hadn't  the  courage  or  the  manliness 
to  get  him  out  of  it.  But,  at  any  rate,  I  can  answer  for  one 
thing,  if  I  v/ere  to  goto  the  stake  for  it  —  Sir  Gilbert  Gilder- 
sleeve is  the  man  who's  really  guilty." 

As  she  spoke,  a  great  shadow  darkened  the  door  of  the  room 
for  a  moment  ominously.  Sir  Gilbert  looked  in,  with  a  lady 
on  his  arm — the  inevitable  dowager  who  refreshes  herself 
continuously  at  frequent  intervals  through  six  hours  of  enter- 
tainment. \Vhen  he  saw  those  two  tite-ct-tete^  he  drew  back, 
somewhat  disconcerted. 

"  Don't  let's  go  in  there.  Lady  Knowles,"  he  whispered  to 
the  dowager  by  his  side.  "  A  pair  of  young  people  di.scussing 
their  hearts.  We  were  once  young  ourselves.  It's  a  pity  to 
disturb  them." 

And  he  passed  on  across  the  hall  toward  the  great  refresh- 
ment-room opposite. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  Cyril  said,  bitterly,  as  the  judge  dis- 
appeared through  the  opposite  door.  "  I  wish  I  could  agree 
with  you;  but  I  can't  —  I  can't !    The  burden  of  it's  heavier 


i| 


hould  be 
and  pre- 
s. 

rril  alone, 
eshments 
iously. 
nee  (they 

to  plain 
)f  it  than 
ocent.  I 
't  be  mis- 

you,  Sir 

1  you  are 
ffer  from 
earth  can 
1,  in  writ- 

1  a  true 
lere  posi- 
somehow 
omething 
)s  he  got 
nanliness 
for  one 
Gilder- 

ne  room 
a  lady 
herself 
of  enter- 
ew  back, 

pered  to 
scussing 
a  pity  to 

refresh- 

dge  dis- 
Id  agree 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN   THE    BONE. 


215 


than  my  shoulders  can  bear.  Guy's  weak,  !  know,  and  might 
be  led  half -unawares  into  certain  sorts  of  crime.  Yet  I  only 
knew  one  man  ever  likely  to  lead  him;  and  that  was  poor 
Nevitt  himself,  not  Sir  Gilbert  Gildersleeve,  whom  he  hardly 
even  knew  to  speak  to." 

As  he  paused  and  reflected,  a  servant  with  a  salver  came  up 
and  looked  into  Cyril's  face  mquiringly. 

"Beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  said,  hesitating,  "but  I  think 
you're  Mr.  Waring." 

"  That's  my  name,"  Cyril  answered,  with  a  faint  blush  on 
his  cheek.     '•  Do  you  want  to  speak  to  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir;  there's  half  a  crown  to  pay  for  porterage,  if  you 
please.     A  telegram  for  you,  sir." 

Cyril  pulled  out  the  half-crown,  and  tore  open  the  telegram. 
Its  contents  were  indeed  enough  to  startle  him.  It  was  dated 
"  Cape  Town,"  and  was  as  brief  as  is  the  wont  of  cable  mes- 
sages at  nine  shillings  a  word  : 

**  Coming  home  immediately  to  repay  everything  and  stand 
my  trial.     Kelmscott  accompanies  me.    All  well. 

"Guy  Waring." 

Cyril  looked  at  it  with  a  gasp,  and  handed  it  on  to  Elma. 
Elma  took  it  in  her  dainty  gloved  fingers,  and  read  it  through 
with  keen  eyes  of  absorbing  interest.  Cyril  sighed  a  profound 
sigh.  Elma  glanced  back  at  him  all  triumph.  "  I  told  you 
so,"  she  said,  in  a  very  jubilant  voice.  "  He  wouldn't  do  that 
if  he  didn't  knaw  he  was  innocent." 

At  the  very  same  second,  a  blustering  voice  was  heard  above 
the  murmur  in  the  hall  without. 

"What,  half  a  crown  for  porterage!  "  it  exclaimed,  in  indig- 
nant tones.  "Why,  that's  a  clear  imposition.  The  people 
at  my  house  ought  never  to  have  sent  it  on.  It's  addressed 
to  Woodlands.  Unimportant,  unimportant!  Here,  Gwendo- 
line, take  your  message — some  milliner's  or  dressmaker's 
appointment  for  to-morrow,  I  suppose.  Half  a  crown  for  por- 
terage!    They'd  no  right  to  bring  it." 

Gwendoline  took  the  telegram  with  trembling  hands,  tore  it 
open,  all  quivers,  and  broke  into  a  cry  of  astonishment;  then 
she  fell  all  at  once  into  her  father's  arms.  Elma  understood  it 
all.  It  was  a  similar  message  from  Granville  Kelmscott,  to 
tell  the  lady  of  his  heart  he  was  coming  home  to  marry  her. 

gir  Qilb^rt,  somewhat  |li;stered,  galled  for  W4ter  in  h^ste^ 


I   n 


I 


i  ^W 


2h 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE    BONE. 


and  revived  the  fainting  girl  by  bathing  her  temples.  At  last 
he  took  up  the  cause  of  the  mischief  himself.  As  he  read  it, 
his  own  face  turned  white  as  death.  Elma  noticed  that.  too. 
And  no  wonder  it  did;  for  these  were  the  words  of  that  unex- 
pected message: 

"  Coming  home  to  claim  you  by  the  next  mail.     Guy  War- 
ing accompanies  me.  Granville  Kelmscott." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 


A   GLEAM   OF   LIGHT. 


Next  day  but  one,  the  Companion  of  St.  Michael  and  St. 
George  came  into  Craighton  with  evil  tidings.  He  had  heard 
in  the  village  that  Sir  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  was  ill — very  seri- 
ously ill.  The  judge  had  come  home  from  the  Holkers  the 
other  evening  much  upset  by  the  arrival  of  Gwendoline's 
telegram. 

"  Though  why  on  earth  that  should  upset  him,"  Mr.  Clifford 
continued,  screwing  up  his  small  face  with  a  very  wise  air,  ''is 
more  than  I  can  conceive;  for  I'm  sure  the  Gildersleeves 
angled  hard  enough  in  their  time  to  catch  young  Kelmscott, 
by  hook  or  by  crook,  for  their  gawky  daughter;  and  now  that 
young  Kelmscott  telegraphs  over  to  say  he's  coming  home 
post-haste  to  marry  her.  Miss  Gwendoline  faints  away,  if  you 
please,  as  she  read  the  news,  and  the  judge  himself  goes 
upstairs  as  soon  as  he  gets  home,  and  takes  to  his  bed  incon- 
tinently. But  there,  the  ways  of  the  world  are  really  inscruta- 
ble! What  reconciles  me  to  life  every  day  I  grow  older  is 
that  it's  so  amusing — so  intensely  amusing!  You  never  know 
what's  going  to  turn  up  next;  and  what  you  least  expect  is 
what  most  often  happens." 

Elma,  however,  received  his  news  with  a  very  grave  face. 

**  Is  he  really  ill,  do  you  think,  papa? "she  asked,  somewhat 
anxiously;  "or  is  he  only — well — only  frightened?" 

Mr.  Clifford  stared  at  her  with  a  blank,  leathery  face  of  self- 
satisfied  incomprehension. 

"  Frightened!  "  he  repeated,  solemnly;  "Sir  Gilbert  Gilder- 
sleeve frightened!  And  of  Granville  Kelmscott,  too!  That's 
true  wit,  Elma;  the  juxtaposition  of  the  incongruous.  Whv, 
what  on  earth  has  the  man  got  to  be  frightene4  O^t  ^  should 


WHAT  S   BRED    IN    THK    UUNF. 


217 


At  last 
ead  it, 
at.  too. 
t  unex- 

f  War- 

iTT." 


and  St. 
d  heard 
ry  sed- 
ers the 
ioline's 

Clifford 

air,  *  IS 

rsleeves 

imscott, 

ow  that 

home 

if  you 

goes 

incon- 

scruta- 

der  is 

know 

)ect  is 

ace. 
lewhat 

of  self- 

jilder- 
That's 
Why, 
should 


like  to  know?  .  .  .  No,  no,  he's  really  ill;  very  seriously  ill. 
Humphreys  says  the  case  is  a  most  peculiar  one,  and  he's  tele- 
graphed up  to  town  for  a  specialist  to  come  down  this  after- 
noon and  consult  with  him." 

And,  indeed.  Sir  Gilbert  was  really  very  ill.  This  unex- 
pected shock  had  wholly  unmanned  him.  To  say  the  truth, 
the  judge  had  begun  to  look  upon  Guy  Waring  as  practically 
lost,  and  upon  thematter  of  Montague  Nevitt's  death  as  closed 
forever.  Waring,  no  doubt,  had  gone  to  Africa  (under  a  false 
name)  and  proceeded  to  the  diamond-fields  direct,  where  he 
had  probably  been  killed  in  a  lucky  quarrel  with  some  brother 
digger,  or  stuck  through  with  an  assegai  by  some  enterprising 
Zulu;  and  nobody  had  even  taken  the  trouble  to  mention 
it. 

It's  so  easy  for  a  man  to  get  lost  in  the  crowd  in  the  Dark 
Continent!  Why,  there  was  Granville  Kelmscott,  even — a 
young  fellow  of  means,  and  the  heir  of  Tilgate,  about  whom 
Gwendoline  was  always  moaning  and  groaning,  poor  girl,  and 
wouldn't  be  comforted — there  was  Granville  Kelmscott,  gone 
out  to  Africa,  and,  hi,  presto,  disappeared  into  space  without 
a  vapor  or  a  trace,  like  a  conjurer's  shilling.  It  was  all  very 
queer;  but  then,  queer  things  are  the  way  in  Africa. 

To  be  sure,  Sir  Gilbert  had  his  qualms  of  conscience,  too, 
over  having  thus  sent  off  Guy  Waring,  as  he  believed,  to  his 
grave  in  Cape  Colony.  He  was  not  at  heart  al)ad  man,  though 
he  was  pushing,  and  selfish,  and  self-seeking,  and  to  a  certain 
extent,  even — of  late — unscrupulous.  He  had  his  bad  half- 
hours  every  now  and  again  with  his  own  moral  consciousness. 
But  he  had  learned  to  stifle  his  doubts  and  to  keep  down  his 
terrors.  After  all,  he  had  told  Guy  no  more  than  the  truth; 
and  if  Guy  in  his  panic-terror  chose  to  run  away  and  get  killed 
in  South  Africa,  that  was  no  fault  of  hisj  he'd  only  tried  to 
warn  the  fellow  of  an  impending  danger.  All's  well  that  ends 
well;  and,  to-day,  Guy  Waring  was  lost  or  dead,  while  he  him- 
self was  a  judge,  and  a  knight  to  boot,  with  all  trace  of  his 
crime  destroyed  forever. 

So  he  said  to  himself,  rejoicing,  the  very  day  Granville 
Kelmscott's  telegram  arrived.  But  now  that  he  stood  face 
to  face  again  with  that  pressing  terror,  his  thoughts  on  the 
matter  were  very  different.  Strange  to  say,  his  first  idea  was 
this:  What  a  disgraceful  shame  of  that  fellow  Waring  to  come 
to  life  again  thus  suddenly  on  purpose  to  annoy  him !    Ke 


h  J 


218 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


!   '. 


,  \ 


was  really  angry,  nay,  more,  indignant.  Such  shuffling  was 
inexcusable.  If  Waring  meant  to  give  himself  up  and  stand 
his  trial  like  a  man,  why  the  dickens  didn't  he  do  it  immedi- 
ately after  the — well,  the  accident  ?  What  did  he  mean  by 
going  off  for  eighteen  months  undiscovered,  and  leaving  one 
to  build  up  fresh  plans  in  life  like  this — and  then  coming 
home  on  a  sudden  just  on  purpose  to  upset  them  ?  It  was 
simply  disgraceful.  Sir  Gilbert  felt  injured;  thisman  Waring 
was  wronging  him.  Eighteen  months  before  he  was  keenly 
aware  that  he  was  unjustly  casting  a  vile  and  hideous  suspi- 
cion on  an  innocent  person;  but  in  the  intervening  period 
his  moral  sense  had  got  largely  blunted.  Familiarity  with  the 
hateful  plot  had  warped  his  ideas  about  it.  Their  places  were 
reversed.  Sir  Gilbert  was  really  aggrieved  now  that  Guy 
Waring  should  turn  up  again,  and  should  venture  to  vindicate 
his  deeply  wronged  character. 

The  man  was  as  good  as  dead.  Well,  and  he  ought  to  have 
stopped  so;  or  else  he  ought  never  to  have  died  at  all.  He 
ought  to  have  kept  himself  continually  in  evidence.  But  to 
go  away  for  eighteen  months,  unknown  and  unheard  of,  till 
one's  sense  of  security  had  had  time  to  re-establish  itself,  and 
then  to  turn  up  again  like  this  without  one  minute's  warning 
— oh,  it  was  infamous,  scandalous!  The  fellow  must  be  devoid 
of  all  consideration  for  others.  Sir  Gilbert  wiped  his  clammy 
brow  with  those  ample  hands.  What  on  earth  was  he  to  do 
for  his  wife,  and  for  Gwendoline  ? 

And  Gwendoline  was  so  happy,  too,  over  Granville  Kelm- 
scott's  return!  How  could  he  endure  that  Granville  Kelm- 
scott's  return  should  be  the  signal  for  discovering  her  father's 
sin  and  shame  to  her !  If  only  he  could  have  married  her  off 
before  it  all  came  out !  Or  if  only  he  could  die  before  the 
man  was  tried  I  Tried  !  Sir  Gilbert's  eyes  started  from  his 
head  with  horror.  What  was  that  Elma  Clifford  suggested 
the  other  night  ?  Why — if  the  man  was  arrested,  he  would 
be  arrested  at  IMymouth,  the  moment  he  landed,  and  would 
be  tried  for  murder  at  the  Western  Assizes.  And  it  was  he 
himself.  Sir  Gilbert  Gildersleeve,  who  was  that  term  to  take 
the  Western  Circuit. 

He  would  be  called  upon  to  sit  on  the  bench  himself,  and 
try  Guy  Waring  for  the  murder  he  had  himself  committed  ! 

No  wonder  that  thought  sent  him  ill  to  bed  at  once.  He 
lay  and  tossed  all  night  long  in  speechless  agony  ^nd  terrpr, 


•  *c 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE    BONE. 


319 


It  was  an  appalling  nigiit.  Next  morning  he  was  found  delir- 
ious with  fever. 

When  the  news  reached  Elma,  she  saw  its  full  and  fatal 
significance.  Cyril  had  stopped  on  for  three  days  at  the 
Holkers,  and  he  came  over  in  the  course  of  the  morning  to 
take  a  walk  across  the  fields  with  her.  Elma  was  profoundly 
excited.    Cyril  could  hardly  see  ^vhy. 

"  This  is  a  terrible  thing,"  she  said,  "  about  Sir  Gilbert's 
illness.  What  I'm  afraid  of  now  is,  that  he  may  die  before 
your  brother  returns.  The  shock  must  have  been  awful  for 
him.  Mamma  noticed  it  every  bit  as  much  as  I  did;  and  so 
did  Miss  Ewes.  They  both  said  at  once,  *  This  blow  will  kill 
him  ! '  And  they  both  knew  why,  Cyril,  as  well  as  I  did.  It's 
the  Ewes  intuition.  We've  all  of  us  got  it,  and  we  all  of  us 
say,  at  once  and  unanimously,  it  was  Sir  Gilbert  Gilder- 
sleeve." 

"  But  suppose  he  die/  die,"  Cyril  asked,  still  skeptical,  as  he 
always  was  when  Elma  got  upon  her  instinctive  conscious- 
ness; "  what  difference  would  that  make?  If  Guy's  innocent, 
as  I  suppose  in  some  way  he  must  be,  from  the  tone  of  his 
telegram,  he'll  be  acquitted  whether  Sir  Gilbert's  alive  or  not; 
and  if  he's  guilty — " 

He  broke  off  suddenly,  with  an  awful  pause;  the  other 
alternative  was  too  terrible  to  contemplate. 

"  But  he's  «<?/ guilty,"  Elma  answered,  with  confidence.  "  I 
know  it  more  surelv  now  than  ever.  And  the  difficulty's  this: 
Nobody  knows  the  real  truth,  I  feel  certain,  except  Sir  Gilbert 
Gildersleeve;  and  if  Sir  Gilbert  dies  unconfessed,  the  truth 
dies  with  him.  And  then — "  She  paused  a  moment.  "  I'm 
half  afraid,"  she  went  on,  with  a  doubtful  sigh,  "your 
brother's  been  too  precipitate  in  coming  home  to  face  it." 

"But,  Elma,"  Cyril  cried  —  "I  can't  bear  to  say  it,  yet  one 
must  face  the  facts  —  how  on  earth  can  he  be  innocent,  when 
I  tell  you  again  and  again  he  wrote  to  me  himself  saying  he 
really  did  it?" 

"  You  never  showed  me  that  letter,"  Elma  answered,  with  a 
faint  undercurrent  of  reproach  in  her  tone. 

"  How  could  I  ? "  Cyril  replied.  "  Even  toyou,  Elma,  there 
are  some  things  a  man  can  hardly  bear  to  speak  about." 

"  I  have  more  faith  than  you,  Cyril,"  Elma  answered.  "  I've 
never  given  up  believing  in  Guy  all  the  time.    I  believe  i» 

him  stiU— because  I  kngw  he's  your  brother," 


i 


n' 


.  (1 


220 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


I  ! 


There  was  a  short  pause,  during  which  neither  spoke.  They 
walked  along  together,  looking  at  each  other's  faces  with 
half-downcast  eyes,  but  with  the  not  unpleasant  sense  of  mute 
companionship  and  sympathy  in  a  great  sorrow.  At  last 
Elma  spoke  again. 

"  There  was  one  thing  in  Guy's  telegram,"  she  said,  "  I 
didn't  quite  understand.  *  Coming  home  immediately  to  repay 
everything.'  What  did  he  mean  by  that?  What  has  that  got 
to  do  with  Mr.  Nevitt's  disappearance? " 

"  Oh,  that  was  quite  another  matter  ! "  Cyril  answered, 
blushing  deep  with  shame;  for  he  couldn't  bear  to  let  Elma 
know  Guy  was  a  forger  as  well  as  a  murderer.  "Thai  ,vas 
something  purely  personal  between  us  two.  He — he  owed 
me  money." 

Elma's  keen  eyes  read  him  through  at  a  glance.  "  But  he 
said  it  all  in  one  sentence,"  she  objected,  "  as  if  the  two  went 
naturally  together.  *  Coming  home  immediately  to  repay 
everyth'ng,  and  stand  my  trial.'  Cyril,  Cyril,  you've  held 
something  back.  I  belie  ;e  there's  some  fearful  mistake  here 
somewhere." 

"You  think  so?"  Cyril  answered,  feeling  more  and  more 
uncomfortable. 

"  I'm  sure  of  it,"  Elma  replied  with  a  thrill,  reading  his 
thoughts  still  deeper.  "Oh,  Cyril!"  —  she  seized  his  arm 
with  a  convulsive  grip  —  for  heaven's  sake,  go  and  get  it;  let 
me  see  that  letter  !  " 

"  I  have  it  here,"  Cyril  answered,  pulling  it  out  with  some 
shame  from  Montague  Nevitt's  pocket-book,  which  he 
wouldn't  destroy,  and  dared  not  leave  about  for  prying  eyes 
to  light  upon.  "  I've  carried  it  day  and  night,  ever  since, 
about  with  me." 

Elma  seized  it  from  his  hands,  and  sat  down  upon  a  stile 
and  read  it  through  with  profound  attention. 

At  the  end  she  handed  it  back,  and  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 
"  Cyril,"  she  said,  half-laughing  hysterically  and  half-crying 
as  she  spoke,  "  you've  been  doing  that  poor  fellow  a  deep 
injustice.  Oh,  don't  you  see  —  don't  you  see  it?  That  isn't  the 
letter  of  a  man  who  has  committed  a  murder.  It's  the  letter 
of  a  man  who  has  unwittingly  and  unwillingly  done  you  some 
personal  wrong,  and  is  eager  to  repair  i't.  My  darling,  my 
darling !  you've  misread  it  altogether.  Ic  isn't  about  Mon- 
tague Nevitt's  des^th  ^t  ^U;  it'ti  about  nothing  on  earth  but 


k 


WHAT  S   BRED    IN    THE    BONE. 


221 


some  private  money  matter.  More  than  that,  when  it  was 
written  Guy  didn't  yet  know  Mr.  Nevitt  was  dead.  He  didn't 
know  he  was  suspected.  He  didn't  know  anything.  I  won- 
der you  don't  see  !  I  wish  to  heaven  you'd  shown  me  that 
letter  months  ago  !  Sir  Gilbert  fastened  suspicion  on  the 
wrong  man,  and  this  letter  has  made  you  accept  it  too  easily. 
Guy  went  to  Africa  —  that's  as  plain  as  words  can  put  it  —  to 
m  ike  money  of  his  own  to  repay  what  he  owed  you.  And  it's 
this,  the  purely  personal  and  unimportant  charge,  he's  coming 
home  to  give  himself  up  upon  !  " 

A  light  seemed  to  burst  on  Cyril's  mind  as  she  spoke.  For 
the  very  first  time  he  felt  a  gleam  of  hope.  Elma  was  right, 
after  all,  he  believed.  Guy  was  wholly  innocent  of  the  greater 
crime,  and  his  heart-broken  letter  had  only  meant  to  deal  with 
the  question  of  the  forgery. 

But  Cyril  had  heard  of  the  murder  first,  and  had  had  that 
most  in  his  mind  when  the  letter  reached  him;  so  he  inter- 
preted it  at  once  as  referring  to  the  capital  charge,  and  never 
dreamed  for  a  moment  of  its  real  narrower  meaning. 

That  evening,  when  the  messenger  came  back  from  "  kind 
inquiries"  at  Woodlands,  Elma  asked,  with  hushed  awe,  how 
Sir  Gilbert  was  going  on. 

"  Very  poorly,  miss,"  the  servant  answered.  *'  The  doctor 
says  he's  sunk  dreadful  low,  and  the  butler  thinks  he  has  some- 
thing on  his  mind  he  can't  get  out  in  his  wanderings.  He's 
in  a  terrible  bad  way.  They  wouldn't  be  astonished  if  he 
don't  live  to  morning." 

So  Elma  went  to  bed  that  night  trembling  most  for  the 
result  of  Sir  Gilbert's  illness. 


CHAPTER  XL. 


THE   BOLT    FALLS. 


All  the  way  home  on  that  long  journey  from  Cape  Town, 
as  the  two  half-brothers  lounged  on  deck  together  in  their 
canvas  chairs,  Granville  Kelmscott  was  wholly  at  a  loss  to 
understand  what  seemed  to  him  Guy  Waring's  unaccountable 
and  almost  incredible  levity.  The  man's  conduct  didn't  in 
the  least  resemble  that  of  a  person  who  is  returning  to  give 
himself  up  on  a  charge  of  willful  murder.    On  the  contrary, 


i 


\\i 


222 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


ill 


I. 


! 


\ 


i  I 


I  t 


!»■       ! 


I 


(iuy  showed  no  signs  of  remorse  or  mental  agony  in  any  way; 
he  seemed  rather  elated,  instead,  at  the  pleasing  thought 
that  he  was  going  home,  with  his  diamonds  all  turned  at  the 
Cape  into  solid  coin,  to  make  his  peace  once  more  with  his 
brother  Cyril. 

To  be  sure,  at  times,  he  did  casually  allude  to  some 
expected  unpleasantness  when  he  arrived  in  England;  yet  he 
treated  it,  Granville  noticed,  as  though  hanging  were  at  worst 
but  a  temporary  inconvenience.  Granville  wondered  whether, 
after  all,  he  could  have  some  complete  and  crushing  answer  to 
that  appalling  charge;  on  any  other  supposition,  his  spirits 
and  his  talk  were  really  little  short  of  what  one  might  expect 
from  a  madman. 

And  indeed,  now  and  again,  Granville  did  really  begin  to 
suspect  that  something  had  gone  wrong  somewhere  with  Guy 
Waring's  intellect.  The  more  he  thought  over  it,  the  more 
likely  did  this  seem,  for  Guy  talked  on  with  the  greatest  com- 
posure about  his  plans  for  the  future  "when  this  difficulty  was 
cleared  up,"  as  though  a  trial  for  murder  were  a  most  ordinary 
occurrence — an  accident  that  might  happen  to  any  gentleman 
any  day.  And  if  so,  was  it  possible  that  Guy  had  gone  wrong 
in  his  head  before  the  affray  with  Montague  Nevitt?  That 
seemed  likely  enough;  for  when  Granville  remembered  Guy's 
invariable  gentleness  and  kindness  to  himself,  his  devotion  in 
sickness  and  in  the  trials  of  the  descit,  his  obvious  aversion 
to  do  harm  to  anyone,  and,  above  all,  his  heartfelt  objection 
to  shedding  human  blood,  Granville  was  constrained  to  believe 
his  newly-found  half-brother,  if  ever  he  committed  the  mur- 
der at  all,  must  have  committed  it  while  in  a  state  of  unsound 
mind,  deserving  rather  of  pity  than  of  moral  reprehension. 
He  comforted  himself,  indeed,  with  this  consoling  idea;  he 
could  never  believe  a  Kelmscott  of  Tilgate,  when  clothed 
in  his  right  mind,  could  be  guilty  of  such  a  detestable 
and  motiveless  crime  as  the  willful  murder  of  Montague 
Nevitt. 

Strangely  enough,  moreover,  the  subject  that  seemed  most 
to  occupy  Guy  Waring's  mind  on  the  voyage  home  was  not 
his  forthcoming  trial  on  a  capital  charge,  but  the  future  dis- 
tribution of  the  Tilgate  property.  Was  he  essentially  a  money- 
grubber,  Granville  wondered  to  himself,  as  he  had  thought 
him  at  first  in  the  diamond-fields  in  Barolong  land?  Was  he 
incapable  of  thinking  about  anything  but  filthy  lucre?    No, 


ii 


1! 


r 


WHAT'S   BRED   IN    Till:   IJONL. 


223 


itague 


most 
IS  not 
re  dis- 
loney- 
[ought 
^as  he 
No, 


that  was  clearly  not  the  true  solution  of  the  problem;  for 
whenever  Guy  spoke  to  him  about  the  subject,  it  was  gener- 
ally to  say  one  and  the  self-same  thing: 

'*  In  this  matter,  I  feel  1  can  speak  for  Cyril  as  I  speak  for 
myself.  Neither  of  us  would  wish  to  deprive  you  now  of  what 
you've  always  been  brought  up  to  consider  as  your  own. 
Neither  of  us  would  wish  to  dispossess  Lady  Emily.  The 
most  we  would  desire  is  this:  to  have  our  position  openly 
acknowledged  and  settled  before  the  world.  We  should  like 
it  to  be  known  we  are  the  lawful  sons  of  a  brave  man  and  an 
honest  woman.  And  if  you  wish  voluntarily  to  share  with  us 
some  of  our  father's  estate,  we'll  be  willing  to  enter  into  a 
reasonable  arrangement  by  which  you  yourself  can  retain  Til- 
gate  Park  and  the  mass  of  the  property  that  immediately 
appertains  to  it.  I'm  sure  Cyril  would  no  more  wish  to  be 
grasping  in  this  matter  than  I  am;  and  after  all  that  you  and 
I  have  gone  through  together,  Granville,  I  don't  think  you 
need  doubt  the  sincerity  of  my  feelings  toward  you." 

He  spoke  so  sensibly,  he  spoke  so  manfully,  he  spoke  so 
kindly  always,  with  a  bright  gleam  in  those  tender  eyes,  that 
Granville  hardly  knew  what  to  make  of  his  evident  confidence. 
Surely  a  man  couldn't  be  mad  wIjo  could  speak  like  that;  and 
yet,  whenever  he  alluded  in  any  way  to  his  return  to  England, 
it  was  always  as  though  he  ignored  the  gravity  and  heinous- 
ness  of  the  charge  brought  against  him.  It  was  as  though 
murder  was  an  accident  for  which  one  was  hardly  responsi- 
ble. Granville  couldn't  make  him  out  at  all;  the  fellow  was 
an  enigma  to  him.  There  was  so  much  that  was  good  in 
him;  and  yet,  there  must  be  so  much  that  was  bad  as  well. 
He  was  such  a  delicate,  considerate,  self-effacing  gentle- 
man— and  yet,  if  one  could  believe  what  he  himself  more  than 
once  as  good  as  admitted,  he  was  a  criminal,  a  felon,  an  open 
murderer. 

Still,  even  so,  Granville  couldn't  turn  his  back  upon  the 
brother  who  had  seen  him  so  bravely  across  the  terrors  of 
Namaqua  land.  He  thought  of  how  he  had  misjudged  him 
once  before,  and  how  much  he  had  repented  it.  Whether  Guy 
was  a  murderer  or  not,  Granville  felt,  the  man  he  had  saved, 
at  least,  could  never  forsake  him. 

The  night  before  their  arrival  at  Plymouth,  Guy  was  in 
unusually  high  spirits.  His  mirth  was  contagious.  Everybody 
on  board  was  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  reaching  land,  but 


^\ 


224 


WHAT  S   BRED    IN    THE    BONE. 


If 


ii 


Guy  was  more  delighted  and  more  sanguine  than  anybody. 
He  was  sure  in  his  own  mind  this  difficulty  must  have  blown 
over  long  before  now;  Cyril  must  have  explained;  Nevitt  must 
have  confessed;  everything  must  have  been  set  right,  and  his 
own  good  name  satisfactorily  rehabilitated.  For  more  than 
eighteen  months  he  had  heard  nothing  from  England.  To- 
morrow he  would  see  Cyril,  and  account  for  everything.  He 
had  money  to  set  all  right — his  hard-earned  money,  got  at  the 
risk  of  his  own  life  in  the  dreary  deserts  of  Larolong  land. 
All  would  yet  be  well,  and  Cyril  would  marry,  and  Elma  Clif- 
ford would  be  the  mistress  of  nearly  half  the  Tilgate  property. 

"  It  was  all  so  different,  Granville,"  he  said  to  his  friend, 
confidentially,  as  they  paced  the  deck  after  supper,  cigar  in 
mouth,  "  when  we  first  went  out,  and  wc  didn't  know  one 
another.  Then  I  distrusted  you,  and  you  distrusted  me — we 
didn't  understand  one  another's  characters;  but  now  we  can 
settle  it  all  as  a  family  affair.  Men  who  have  camped  out 
together  under  the  open  sky  on  the  African  veldt,  who  have 
run  the  gauntlet  of  Korannas  and  Barolong  and  Namaqua, 
who  have  stood  by  one  another  in  sickness  and  in  fight,  needn't 
be  afraid  of  disagreeing  about  their  money  matters  in  England. 
Cyril  will  meet  us  to-morrow  and  talk  it  all  over,  and  I'm  not 
the  least  troubled  about  the  result,  either  for  you  or  for  him. 
The  same  blood  runs  in  all  our  veins  alike.  Whatever  you 
propose,  he'll  be  ready  to  agree  to.  He's  the  very  best  fellow 
that  ever  lived;  and  when  he  hears  what  I  have  to  say  about 
you,  he'll  welcome  you  as  a  brother,  and  be  as  fond  of  you 
as  I  am." 

Next  morning  early  they  reached  Plymouth  Harbor.  As 
they  entered  the  mouth  of  the  breakwater,  the  tender  came 
alongside  to  convey  them  ashore.  Guy  looked  over  the  bul- 
warks and  saw  Cyril  waiting  for  him.  In  a  fervor  of  delight 
at  the  sight  of  the  green  fields  and  the  soft  hills  of  old  Eng- 
land— the  beautiful  Hoe,  and  the  solid  stone  houses,  and  the 
familiar  face  turned  up  to  welcome  him — Guy  waved  his 
handkerchief  round  and  round  his  head  in  triumph;  to  which 
demonstration  Cyril,  as  he  fancied,  responded  but  coldly.  A 
chill  fell  upon  his  heart.  This  was  bad;  but  still,  after  all,  he 
could  hardly  expect  Cyril  to  know  intuitively  under  what  sin- 
ister influence  he  had  signed  that  fatal  check.  And  yet  he  was 
disappointed.  His  heart  had  jumped  so  hard  at  sight  of 
Cyril  he  could  hardly  believe  Cyril  wasn't  glad  to  see  him. 


WHAT  S   UREl)    IN    THE    HONE. 


2-^5 


anybody. 
,ve  blown 
jvitt  must 
:,  and  his 
lore  than 
.nd.  To- 
ing.  He 
jot  at  the 
ong  land. 
Ima  Clif- 
property. 
is  friend, 
',  cigar  in 
now  one 

me — we 
w  we  can 
nped  out 
/ho  have 
'Jamaqua, 
t,  needn't 
England. 
1  I'm   not 

for  him. 
ever  you 
:st  fellow 
ay  about 
d  of  you 

bor.     As 

der  came 

■  the  bul- 

f  delight 

>ld  Eng- 

and  the 

aved  his 

o  which 

Idly.     A 

er  all,  he 

rhat  sin- 

5t  he  was 

sight  of 

him. 


As  he  stepped  into  the  tender  from  the  gangway,  just  ready 
to  rush  up  and  shake  Cyril's  hand  fervently,  a  resolute-looking 
man  by  the  side  of  the  steps  laid  a  very  firm  grip  on  his  shoul- 
der with  an  air  of  authority. 

"  Guy  Waring?  "  he  said,  interrogatively. 

And  Guy,  turning  pale,  answered  without  flinching: 

"  Yes,  my  name's  Guy  Waring." 

"Then  you're  my  prisoner,"  the  man  said,  in  a  very  firm 
voice.     "I'm  an  inspector  of  constabulary." 

"On  what  charge?"  Guy  exclaimed,  half  taken  aback  at 
this  promptitude. 

"I  have  a  warrant  against  you,  sir,"  the  inspector  answered, 
"as  you  arenodoubtaware,  for  the  willful  murder  of  Montague 
Nevitt,  on  the  17th  of  August,  year  before  last,  at  Mambary, 
in  Devonshire." 

The  words  fell  upon  Guy's  ears  with  all  the  suddenness  and 
crushing  force  of  an  unexpected  thunderbolt.  "  Willful  mur- 
der! "he  cried,  taken  aback  by  the  charge.  "Willful  murder 
of  Montague  Nev'tt,  at  Mambury!  Oh,  no,  you  can't  mean 
that!  Montague  Nevitt  dead?  Montague  Nevitt  m.urdered! 
And  at  Mambury,  too!  There  musf  be  some  mistake  some- 
where." 

"  No,  there's  no  mistake  at  all  this  time,"  the  inspector  said, 
quietly,  slipping  a  pair  of  handcuffs  unobtrusively  into  his 
pocket  as  he  spoke.  "  If  you  come  along  with  me  without  any 
unnecessary  noise,  we  won't  trouble  to  iron  you.  But  you'd 
better  say  as  little  as  possible  about  the  charge  just  now,  for 
whatever  you  say  may  be  used  in  evidence  at  the  trial  against 
you." 

Guy  turned  to  Cyril  with  an  appealing  look.  "  Cyril,"  he 
cried,  "  what  does  all  this  mean?  Is  Nevitt  dead?  It's  the 
very  first  word  I've  ever  heard  about  it." 

Cyril's  heart  gave  a  bound  of  wild  relief  at  these  words. 
The  moment  Guy  said  it,  his  brother  knew  he  spoke  the  simple 
truth.  Why,  Guy,"  he  answered,  with  a  fierce  burst  of  joy, 
"then  you're  not  a  murderer,  after  all?  You're  innocent! 
You're  innocent!  And  for  eighteen  months  all  England  has 
thought  you  guilty;  and  I've  lived  under  the  burden  of  being 
universally  considered  a  murderer's  brother!" 

Guy  looked  him  back  in  the  face  with  those  truthful  gray 

eyes  of  his.     "Cyril,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "  I'm  as  innocent  of 

this  charge  as  you  or  Granville  Kelmscott  here.    I  never  even 
16 


r  I 


I! 


r- 


'Z-H\ 


what's    BRKl)    IN    THE    BONE. 


heard  one  whisper  of  it  before.  1  don't  know  what  it  means. 
I  don't  know  whom  they  want.  Till  this  moment  I  thought 
Montague  Nevitt  was  still  alive  in  England." 

And,  as  he  said  it,  Granville  Kelmscott,  too,  saw  he  was 
speaking  the  truth.  Impossible  as  he  found  it  in  his  own 
mind  to  reconcile  those  strange  words  with  all  that  Guy  had 
said  to  him  in  the  wilds  of  Namaqua  land,  he  couldn't  look 
him  in  the  face  without  seeing  at  a  glance  how  profound  and 
unexpected  was  this  sudden  surprise  to  him.  He  was  right  in 
saying,  "I'm  as  innocent  of  this  charge  as  you  or  Granville 
Kelmscott." 

But  the  inspector  only  smiled  a  cynical  smile,  and  answered, 
calmly,  "That's  for  the  jury  to  decide.  We  shall  hear  more 
of  this  then.  You'll  be  tried  at  assizes.  Meanwhile,  the  less 
said,  the  sooner  mended." 


I 


■  i 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

WHAT   JUDGE? 

For  many  days,  meanwhile.  Sir  Gilbert  had  hovered  between 
life  and  death,  and  Elma  had  watched  his  illness  daily  with 
profound  and  absorbing  interest;  for  in  her  deep,  intuitive  way 
she  felt  certain  to  herself  that  their  one  chance  now  lay  in 
Sir  Gilbert's  own  sense  of  remorse  and  repentance.  She  didn't 
yet  know,  to  be  sure — what  Sir  Gilbert  himself  knew — that 
if  he  recovered  he  would,  in  all  probability,  have  to  sit  in  trial 
on  another  man  for  the  crime  he  had  himself  committed;  but 
she  did  feel  this,  that  Sir  Gilbert  would  surely  never  stand  by 
and  let  an  innocent  man  die  for  his  own  transgression. 

//  he  recovered,  that  was  to  say;  but  perhaps  he  would  not 
recover.  Perhaps  his  life  wou.d  flicker  out  by  degrees  in  the 
midst  of  his  delirium,  and  Jie  would  go  to  his  grave  unconfessed 
and  unforgiven.  Perhaps  even,  for  his  wife's  and  daughter's 
sake,  he  would  shrink  from  revealing  what  Elma  felt  to  be  the 
truth,  and  would  rest  content  to  die,  leaving  Guy  Waring  to 
clear  himself  at  the  trial  as  best  he  might  from  this  hateful 
accusation. 

It  would  be  unjust;  it  would  be  criminal;  yet  Sir  Gilbert 
might  do  it. 

Elma  had  a  bad  time,  therefore,  during  all  those  long  days, 


means, 
thought 

he  was 
his  own 
ruy  had 
n't  look 
ind  and 
right  in 
iranville 

iswered, 

ar  more 

the  less 


between 

lily  with 

tiveway 

(W  lay  in 

e  didn't 

w — that 

L  in  trial 

ed;  but 

tand  by 

)uld  not 

in  the 

>nfessed 

[ughter's 

be  the 

iring  to 

hateful 

Gilbert 
ig  days, 


WHAT  S    liKKI)    IN     THK    lloNF. 


5i5J7 


even  before  Guy  returned  to  England.  She  knew  his  life  hung 
by  a  slender  thread,  which  Sir  Ciilbert  (iildersleeve  might  cut 
short  at  any  moment;  but  her  anxiety  was  as  nothing  com- 
pared to  Sir  Gilbert's  own.  That  unhappy  man,  a  moral 
coward  at  heart,  in  spite  of  all  his  blustering,  lay  writhing  in 
his  own  room  now,  very  ill,  and  longing  to  be  worse,  iongin;; 
to  die,  as  the  easiest  way  out  of  this  impossible  ditViculty.  I'Or 
his  wife's  sake,  for  Gwendoline's  sake,  it  was  better  lie  should 
die;  and  if  only  he  could,  he  would  have  left  Guy  Waring  to 
his  fate  contentedly.  His  anger  against  Guy  burnt  so  bright 
now,  at  last,  that  he  would  have  sacrificed  him  willingly,  i)ro- 
vided  he  was  not  there  himself  to  see  and  know  it.  What  did 
the  man  mean  by  living  on  to  vex  him?  Over  and  over  again 
the  unhappy  judge  wished  himself  dead,  and  prayed  to  be 
taken;  but  that  powerful  frame,  though  severely  broken  by 
the  shock,  seemed  hardly  able  to  yield  up  its  life  merely 
because  its  owner  was  anxious  to  part  with  it. 

After  a  fortnight's  severe  illness,  hovering  all  the  time 
between  hope  and  fear,  the  doctor  came  one  day,  and  looked  at 
him  hard. 

"How  is  he?"  Lady  Gildersleeve  asked,  seeing  him  hold 
his  breath  and  consider. 

To  hergreiit  surprise,  the  doctor  answered,  "  Better;  against 
all  hope,  better."  And,  indeed.  Sir  Gilbert  was  once  more 
convalescent.  A  week  or  two  abroad,  it  was  said,  would  restore 
him  completely. 

Then  Elma  had  another  terrible  source  of  doubt.  Would 
the  doctors  order  Sir  Gilbert  abroad  so  long  that  he  would  be 
out  of  England  when  the  trial  took  place?  If  so,  he  might 
miss  many  pricks  of  remorse.  She  must  take  some  active 
steps  to  arouse  his  ccnscience. 

Sir  Gilbert  himself,  now  recovering  fast,  fought  hard,  as 
well  he  might,  for  such  leave  of  absence.  He  was  quite  unfit, 
he  said,  to  return  to  his  judicial  work  so  soon.  Though  he 
had  said  nothing  about  it  in  public  before — this  was  the  tenor 
of  his  talk — he  was  a  man  of  profound  but  restrained  feel- 
ings; and  he  had  felt,  he  would  admit,  the  absence  of  Gwen- 
doline's lover,  especially  when  combined  with  the  tragic  death 
of  Colonel  Kelmscott,  the  father,  and  the  memory  of  the 
unpleasantness  that  had  once  subsisted  (through  the  Colonel's 
blind  obstinacy)  between  the  two  houses.  This  sudden  news 
of  the  young  man's  return  had  given  him  a  nervous  shock  of 


228 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


If 


!'J    HI! 

i  I' 


I. 


which  few  would  have  believed  him  capabb.  "  You  wouldn't 
think,  to  look  at  me,"  Sir  Gilbert  said,  plaintively,  smoothing 
down  his  bed-clothes  with  those  elephantine  hands  of  his,  "  I 
was  the  sort  of  man  to  be  knocked  down  in  this  way;"  and 
the  great  specialist  from  London,  gazing  at  him  with  a  smile, 
admitted  to  himself  that  he  certainly  would  not  have  thought  it. 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  my  dear  sir!  "  the  specialist  answered,  how- 
ever, to  all  his  appeals.  "  This  is  the  merest  passing  turn,  I 
assure  you.  I  couldn't  conscientiously  say  you'd  be  unfit  for 
duty  by  the  time  the  assizes  come  round  again.  It's  clear  to 
me,  on  the  contrary,  with  a  physique  like  yours,  you'll  pull 
yourself  together  in  something  less  than  no  time,  with  a  week 
or  so  at  Spa.  Before  you're  due  in  England  to  take  up  harness 
again,  you'll  be  walking  miles  at  a  stretch  over  those  heat'icry 
hills  there.  Convalescence  with  a  man  like  you  is  a  rapid 
process.  In  a  fortnight  from  to-day,  I'll  venture  to  guarantee, 
you'll  be  in  a  fit  condition  to  riwim  the  Channel  on  your  back, 
or  to  take  one  of  your  famous  fifty-mile  tramps  across  the 
bogs  of  Dartmoor.  I'll  give  you  a  tonic  that'll  set  your  nerves 
all  right  at  once.  You'll  come  back  from  Spa  as  fresh  as  a 
daisy." 

To  Spa,  accordingly.  Sir  Gilbert  went;  and  from  Spa  came 
trembling  letters  now  and  again  between  Gwendoline  and 
Elma.  Gwendoline  was  very  anxious  papa  should  get  well 
soon,  she  said,  for  she  wanted  to  be  home  before  the  Cape 
steamer  arrived.  "  Vou  know  why,  Eima."  But  Sii  Gilbert 
didn't  return  before  Guy's  arrival  in  England,  for  all  that. 
The  papers  contmued  to  give  bulletins  of  his  health,  and  to 
speculate  on  the  probability  of  his  returning  in  time  to  do  the 
\Vestern  Circuit.  Elma  remained  in  a  fever  of  doubt  and 
anxiety.  To  her,  much  depended  now  on  the  question  of  Sir 
Gilbert's  presence  or  absence;  for  if  he  was  indeed  to  try  the 
case,  she  Celt  certain  to  herself  it  must  work  upon  his  remorse 
and  compel  confession. 

Meanwhile,  preparations  went  on  in  England  for  Guy's 
approaching  trial.  The  magistrates  committed;  the  grand 
jury,  of  course,  found  a  true  bill;  all  England  rang  with  the 
strange  news  that  the  man  Guy  Waring,  the  murderer  of  Mr. 
Montague  Nevitt  some  eighteen  months  before,  had  returned 
at  last  of  his  own  free  will,  and  had  given  himself  up  to  take 
his  trial.  Gildersleeve  was  to  be  the  judge,  they  said;  or,  if 
he  were  too  ill,  Atkins.    Atkins  was  as  sure  as  a  gun  to  hang 


-*..***  ^  .-«..^^-,»-  -  «v^ 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE    BONE. 


329 


1  wouldn't 
smoothing 
of  his,  "  I 
vay; "  and 
th  a  smile, 
thought  it. 
ered,  how- 
ing  turn,  I 
)e  unfit  for 
t's  clear  to 
you'll  pull 
'ith  a  week 
up  harness 
>e  heathery 
is  a  rapid 
guarantee, 
your  back, 
across  the 
^our  nerves 
i  fresh  as  a 

n  Spa  came 
idoline  and 
Id  get  well 

;  the  Cape 

Sii  Gilbert 
DT  all  that. 
1th,  and  to 
e  to  do  the 

doubt  and 
stion  of  Sir 
:d  to  try  the 

lis  remorse 


Guy's 


grand 


for 
the 

ig  v  ith  the 
erer  of  Mr. 
,d  returned 
up  to  take 
said;  or,  if 
un  to  hang 


him,  people  thought — that  was  Atkins'  way;  and,  besides, 
th«  evidence  against  the  man,  though  in  a  sense  circumstan- 
tial, was  so  absolutely  overwhelming  that  acquittal  seemed 
impossible. 

Five  to  two  was  freely  offered  on  'Change  that  they'd  hang 
him. 

The  case  was  down  for  first  hearing  at  the  assizes.  The 
night  before  the  trial,  Elma  Clifford,  who  had  hurried  to 
Devonshire  with  her  mother  to  see  and  hear  all — she  couldn't 
help  it,  she  said;  she  felt  she  ////rj/  be  present — Elma  Clifford 
looked  at  the  evening  paper  with  a  sickening  sense  of  suspense 
and  anxiety.  A  paragraph  caught  her  eye:  "We  understand 
that,  after  all,  Mr.  Justice  Gildersleeve  still  finds  himself  too 
unwell  to  return  to  England  for  the  Western  Assizes,  and  his 
place  will  therefore,  most  probably,  be  taken  by  Mr.  Justice 
Atkins.  The  calendar  is  a  heavy  one,  and  includes  the  inter- 
esting case  of  Mr.  Guy  Waring,  charged  with  the  willful  mur- 
der of  Montague  Nevitt,  at  Mambury,  in  Devonshire." 

Elma  laid  down  the  paper  with  a  swimming  head.  Too  ill 
to  return!  She  wasn't  at  all  surprised  at  it.  It  was  almost 
more  than  human  nature  could  stand,  for  a  man  to  sit  as  judge 
over  another,  to  investigate  the  details  of  the  crime  he  had 
himself  commiUcid.  But  the  suggestion  of  his  absence  ruined 
her  peace  of  mind.  She  couldn't  sleep  that  night.  She  felt 
sure  now  there  was  no  hope  left.  Guy  would  almost  certainly 
be  convicted  of  murder. 

Next  morning  she  took  her  seat  in  court,  with  her  mother 
and  Cyrij,  as  soon  as  the  assize  hall  was  opened  to  the  public; 
but  her  cheek  was  very  pale,  and  her  eyes  were  weary.  Places 
had  been  assigned  them,  by  the  courtesy  of  the  authorities,  as 
persons  interested  in  the  case;  and  Elma  looked  eagerly 
toward  the  door  in  the  corner,  by  which,  as  the  usher  told 
her,  the  judge  was  to  enter.  There  was  a  long  interval,  and 
the  usual  unseemly  turmoil  of  laughing  and  talking  went  on 
among  the  spectators  in  the  well  below.  Some  of  them  had 
opera-glasses,  and  stared  about  them  freely.  Others  quizzed 
the  counsel,  the  officers,  and  the  witnesses.  Then  a  hush  came 
over  them.,  and  the  door  opened.  Cyril  was  merely  aware  of 
the  usual  formalities  and  of  a  judicial  wig  making  its  way, 
with  slow  dignity,  to  the  vacant  bench.  But  Elma  leaned 
forward  in  a  tumult  of  feeling.  Her  face  all  at  once  turned 
scarlet  with  excitement. 


230 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN   THE    BONE. 


i 


!     ', 


■ 

1 

\ 

1 

t 

i' 


^1      ! 


"  What's  the  matter,  darling? "  her  mother  asked,  in  a  sym- 
pathetic tone,  noticing  that  something  had  profoundly  stirred 
her. 

And  Elma  answered,  with  bated  breath,  in  almost  inarticulate 
tones:  "Don't  you  see — don't  you  see,  mother?  Just  look  at 
the  judge!     It's  himself.     It's  Sir  Gilbert!" 

And  so,  indeed,  it  was.  Against  all  hope,  he  had  come  over. 
At  the  very  last  moment  a  telegram  had  been  handed  to  the 
convalescent  at  Spa: 

"  Fallen  from  my  horse.  A  nasty  tumble.  Sustained  severe 
internal  injuries.  Impossible  to  go  the  Western  Circuit. 
Relieve  me  if  you  can.     Wire  reply.  Atkins." 

Sir  Gilbert,  as  he  received  it,  had  just  come  in  from  a  long 
ride  across  the  wild  moors  that  stretch  away  from  Spa  toward 
Han,  and  looked  the  picture  of  health,  robust  and  fresh  and 
ruddy.  He  glowed  with  bodily  vigor;  no  suspense  could  kill 
him.  Refusal  under  such  circumstances  was  clearly  impossi- 
ble. He  saw  he  must  go,  or  resign  his  post  at  once.  S'">,  with 
an  agitated  heart,  he  wired  acquiescence,  took  the  next  train 
to  lirussels  and  Calais,  and  caught  the  Dover  boat  just  in 
time  for  acceptance;  and  now  he  was  there  to  try  Guy  War- 
ing for  the  murder  of  the  man  he  himself  had  killed  in  the 
Tangle  at  Mambury. 


CHAPTER    XLII. 


UNEXPECTED  EVIDENCE. 


When  Sir  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  left  Spa,  he  left  with  a  ruddy 
glow  of  recovered  health  on  his  bronzed,  red  cheek;  for  in 
spite  of  anxiety  and  repentance  and  doubt,  the  man  ^ 
iron  frame  would  somehow  still  assert  itself.  When  he  tocl: 
his  seat  on  the  bench  in  court  that  morning,  he  looked  so 
haggard  and  ill  with  fatigue  and  remorse  that  even  Elma 
Clifford  herself  pitied  him.  A  hushed  whisper  ran  round  among 
the  spectators  below  that  the  judge  wasn't  fit  to  try  the  case 
before  him;  and  indeed  he  wasn't — for  it  was  his  own  trial, 
not  Guy  Waring's,  he  was  really  presiding  over. 

He  sat  down  in  his  place  a  ghastly  picture  of  pallid  despair. 
The  red  color  had  faded  altogether  from  his  wan,  white  cheeks. 
His  eyes  were  dreamy  and  bloodshot  with  long  vigil.     His  big 


'A 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


231 


in  a  sym- 
lly  stirred 

larticulate 
ist  look  at 

;orne  over, 
led  to  the 

led  severe 
1    Circuit. 

TKINS." 

om  a  long 
pa  toward 
fresh  and 
could  kill 
^  impossi- 
So,  with 
next  train 
Dat  just  in 
Guy  War- 
ed in  the 


h  a  ruddy 
k;  for  in 
he  man  • 

he  tod 
ooked  so 
ven  Elma 
ind  among 

the  case 
own  trial, 

d  despair, 
ite  cheeks. 
His  big 


hands  trembled  like  a  woman's  as  he  opened  his  note-book. 
His  mouth  twitched  nervously.  So  utter  a  collapse,  in  such 
a  man  as  he  was,  seemed  nothing  short  of  pitiable  to  every 
spectator. 

Counsel  for  the  Crown  stared  him  steadily  in  the  face. 
Counsel  for  the  Crown — Forbes-Ewing,  Q.  C. — was  an  old 
forensic  enemy,  who  had  fought  many  a  hard  battle  against 
Gildersleeve,  with  scant  interchange  of  courtesy,  when  both 
were  members  of  the  junior  bar  together;  but  now  Sir  Gil- 
bert's look  moved  even  him  to  pity.  "  I  think,  my  lord,"  the 
Q.  C.  suggested,  with  a  sympathetic  simper,  "  your  lordship's 
too  ill  to  open  tne  court  to-day.  Perhaps  the  proceedings  had 
better  be  adjourned  for  the  present." 

"No,  no,"  the  judge  answered,  almost  testily,  shaking  his 
sleeve  with  impatience.  "  I'll  have  no  putting  off  for  trifles  in 
the  court  where  I  sit.  There's  a  capita'  case  to  come  on  this 
morning.  When  a  man's  neck's  at  stake — when  a  matter 
of  life  and  death  is  at  issue — I  don't  like  to  keep  anyone 
longer  in  suspense  than  I  absolutely  need.  Delay  would  be 
cruel." 

As  he  spoke  he  lifted  his  eyes — and  caught  Elma  Clifford's. 
The  judge  let  his  own  drop  again  in  speechless  agony.  Elma's 
never  flinched.  Neither  gave  a  sign;  but  Elma  knew,  as  well 
as  Sir  Gilbert  knew  himself,  it  was  his  own  life  and  death  the 
judge  was  thinking  of,  and  not  Guy  Waring's. 

"As  you  will,  my  lord,"  counsel  for  the  Crown  responded, 
demurely.  It  was  your  lordship's  convenience  we  all  had  at 
heart,  rather  than  the  prisoner's." 

"Eh!  what's  that?"  the  judge  said,  sharply,  with  a  sus- 
picious frown.  Then  he  recovered  himself  with  a  start.  For 
a  moment  he  had  half-fancied  that  fellow  Forbes-Ewing  meant 
something  by  what  he  said — meant  to  poke  innuendoes  at  him; 
but,  after  all,  it  was  a  mere  polite  form.  How  frightened  we 
all  are,  to  be  sure,  when  we  know  we're  on  trial. 

The  opening  formalities  were  soon  over,  and  then,  amid 
a  deep  hush  of  breathless  lips,  Guy  Waring,  of  Staple  Inn, 
Holborn,  gentleman,  was  put  upon  his  trial  for  the  willful 
murder  of  Montague  Nevitt,  eighteen  months  before,  at 
Mambury,  in  Devon. 

Guy,  standing  in  the  dock,  looked  puzzled  and  distracted, 
rather  than  alarmed  or  terrified.  His  cheek  was  pale,  to  be 
sure,  and  his  eyes  were  weary;  but  as  Elma  glanced  from  him 


\i 


23* 


\j 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


i 


r; 


tli 


1   I 


I' 


hastily  to  the  judge  on  the  bench,  she  had  no  hesitation  in 
settling  in  her  own  mind  which  of  the  two  looked  most,  at 
that  moment,  like  a  detected  murderer  before  the  faces  of  his 
accusers.  Guy  was  calm  and  self-contained.  Sir  Gilbert's 
mute  agony  was  terrible  to  behold;  yet,  strange  to  say,  no 
one  else  in  court,  save  Elma,  seemed  to  note  it  as  she  did. 
People  saw  the  judge  was  ill,  but  that  was  all.  Perhaps  his 
wig  and  robes  helped  to  hide  the  effect  of  conscious  guilt — 
nobody  suspects  a  judge  of  murder;  perhaps  all  eyes  were 
more  intent  on  the  prisoner. 

Be  that  as  it  might,  counsel  for  the  Crown  opened  with  a 
statement  of  what  they  meant  to  prove,  set  forth  in  the  famil- 
iar forensic  fashion.  They  didn't  pretend  the  evidence  against 
the  accused  was  absolutely  conclusive  or  overwhelming  in 
character.  It  was  inferential  only,  but  not  circumstantial — in- 
ferential in  such  a  cumulative  and  convincmg  way  as  could 
leave  no  moral  doubt  on  any  intelligent  mind  as  to  the  guilt 
of  the  prisoner.  They  would  show  that  a  close  intimacy  had 
long  existed  between  the  prisoner,  Waring,  and  the  deceased 
gentleman,  Mr.  Montague  Nevitt.  Witnesses  would  be  called 
who  would  prove  to  the  court  that  just  before  the  murder  this 
intimac)%  owing  to  circumstances  which  could  not  fully  be 
cleared  up,  had  passed  suddenly  into  intense  enmity  and  open 
hatred.  The  landlord  of  the  inn  at  Mambury,  and  other  per- 
sons to  be  called,  would  speak  to  the  fact  that  the  prisoner  had 
followed  his  victim  in  hot  blood  into  Devonshire,  and  had 
tracked  him  to  the  retreat  where  he  was  passing  his  holiday, 
alone  and  incognito — had  tracked  him  with  every  expression 
of  indignant  anger,  and  had  uttered  plain  threats  of  personal 
violence  toward  him. 

Nor  was  that  all.  It  would  be  shown  that  on  the  afternoon 
of  Waring's  visit  to  Mambury,  Mr.  Nevitt,  who  possessed  an 
intense  love  of  nature  in  her  wildest  and  most  romantic  moods 
— it's  always  counsel's  cue  (for  the  prosecution)  to  set  the 
victim's  character  in  the  most  amiable  light,  and  so  win  the 
sympathy  of  the  jury  as  against  the  accused — Mr.  Nevitt,  that 
close  student  of  natural  beauty,  had  strolled  by  himself  down 
a  certain  woodland  path,  known  as  the  Tangle,  which  led 
through  the  loneliest  and  leafiest  quarter  of  Mambury  Chase, 
along  the  tumbling  stream  described  as  the  Mam-water.  Ten 
minutes  after  he  had  passed  the  gate,  a  material  witness  would 
shovv'  them,  the  prisoner,  Waring,  presented  himself,  and  point- 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


Ji33 


ation  in 
Host,  at 
es  of  his 
jilbert's 
say,  no 
she  did. 
laps  his 
guilt— 
es  were 

i  with  a 
e  famil- 
against 
ning  in 
;ial — in- 
s  could 
le  guilt 
acy  had 
eceased 
e  called 
der  this 
fully  be 
id  open 
ler  per- 
ner  had 
ind  had 
loliday, 
Dression 
)ersonal 

ternoon 
ssed  an 
:  moods 

set  the 

iwin  the 

itt,  that 

If  down 

lich  led 

Chase, 
r.  Ten 
s  would 
d  point- 


edly asked  whether  his  victim  had  already  gone  down  the 
path  before  him.  He  was  told  that  that  was  so.  Thereupon 
the  prisoner  opened  the  gate  and  followed  excitedly.  What 
happened  next  no  living  eye  but  the  prisoner's  ever  saw. 
Montague  Nevitt  was  not  destined  to  issue  from  that  wood 
alive.  Two  days  later  his  breathless  body  was  found,  all  stiff 
and  stark,  hidden  among  the  brown  bracken  at  the  bottom  of 
the  dell,  where  the  murderer  no  doubt  had  thrust  it  away  out 
of  his  sight  on  that  fatal  afternoon  in  fear  and  trembling. 

Half-way  through  the  opening  speech  Sir  Gilbert's  heart 
beat  fast  and  hard.  He  had  never  heard  Forbes-Ewing  open 
a  case  so  well.  The  man  would  be  hanged!  He  felt  sure  of 
it!  He  could  see  it!  For  awhile  the  judge  almost  gloated 
over  that  prospect  of  release.  What  was  Guy's  life  to  him 
now,  by  the  side  of  his  wife's  and  Gwendoline's  happiness? 
But  as  counsel  uttered  the  words,  "What  happened  next  no 
living  eye  but  the  prisoner's  ever  saw,"  he  looked  hard  at 
Guy.  Not  a  quiver  of  remorse  or  of  guilty  knowledge  passed 
over  the  young  man's  face.  But  Elma  Clifford,  for  her  part, 
looked  at  the  judge  on  the  bench.  Their  eyes  met  once  more. 
Again  Sir  Gilbert's  fell.  Oh,  heavens!  how  terrible!  Even 
for  Gwendoline's  sake  he  could  never  stand  this  appalling 
suspense.  But  perhaps,  after  all,  the  prosecution  might  fail. 
There  was  still  a  chance  left  that  the  jury  might  acquit  him. 

So,  torn  by  conflicting  emotions,  he  sat  there  still,  stiff,  and 
motionless  in  his  seat  as  an  Egyptian  statue. 

Then  counsel  went  on  to  deal  in  greater  detail  with  the  ques- 
tion of  motive.  There  were  two  motives  the  prosecution  pro- 
posed to  allege:  First,  the  known  enmity  of  recent  date 
between  the  two  parties,  believed  to  have  reference  to  some 
business  dispute;  and  secondly — here  counsel  dropped  his 
voice  to  a  very  low  key — he  was  sorry  to  suggest  it,  but  the 
evidence  bore  it  out — mere  vulgar  love  of  gain,  the  common- 
place thirst  after  filthy  lucre.  They  would  bring  witnesses  to 
show  that  when  Mr.  Montague  Nevitt  was  last  seen  alive  he 
was  in  possession  of  a  pocket-book  containing  a  very  large 
sum  in  Bank  of  England  notes  of  high  value;  from  the  moment 
of  his  death  that  pocket-book  had  disappeared,  and  nobody 
knew  what  had  since  become  of  it.  It  was  not  upon  the  body 
when  the  body  was  found;  and  all  their  efforts  to  trace  the 
missing  notes,  whose  numbers  were  not  known,  had  been, 
unhappily,  unsuccessful. 


.^k  i^-,  .  •■' 


H  ; 


,1 


lit 


P 


»•• 


I    1 


f' 


. 


234 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


Guy  listened  to  all  this  impeachment  in  a  dazed,  dreamy 
way.  He  hardly  knew  what  it  meant.  It  appalled  and  chilled 
him.  The  web  of  circumstances  was  too  thick  for  him  to 
break.  He  couldn't  understand  it  himself.  And  what  was 
far  worse,  he  could  give  no  active  assistance  to  his  own  law- 
yers on  the  question  of  the  notes — which  might  be  very 
important  evidence  against  him — without  further  prejudicing 
his  case  by  confessing  the  forgery.  At  all  hazards,  he  was 
determined  to  keep  that  quiet  now.  Cyril  had  never  spoken 
to  a  soul  of  that  episode,  and  to  speak  of  it  as  things  stood 
would  have  been  certain  death  to  him.  It  would  be  to  supply 
the  one  missing  link  of  motive  which  the  prosecution  needed 
to  complete  their  chain  of  cumulative  evidence. 

It  was  some  comfort  to  him  to  think,  however,  that  the 
secret  was  safe  in  Cyril's  keeping.  Cyril  had  all  the  remain- 
ing notes,  still  unchanged,  in  his  possession;  and  the  prosecu- 
tion, knowing  nothing  of  the  forgery  or  its  sequel,  had  no  clew 
at  all  as  to  where  they  came  from. 

Bat  as  for  Sir  Gilbert,  he  listened  still,  with  ever-deepening 
horror.  His  mind  swayed  to  and  fro  between  hope  and 
remorse.  They  were  making  the  man  guilty,  and  Gwendoline 
would  be  saved!  They  were  making  the  man  guilty,  and  a 
gross  wrong  would  be  perpetrated!  Great  drops  of  sweat 
stood  colder  than  ever  on  his  burning  brow.  He  couldn't 
have  believed  Forbes-Ewing  could  have  done  it  so  well.  He 
was  weaving  a  close  web  round  an  innocent  man  with  con- 
summate forensic  skill  and  cunning. 

The  case  went  '^n  to  its  second  stage.  Witnesses  were 
called;  and  Guy  listened  to  them  dreamily.  All  of  them  bore 
out  counsel's  opening  statement.  Every  man  in  court  felt  the 
evidence  was  going  very  hard  against  the  prisoner.  They'd 
caught  the  right  man,  that  was  clear — so  the  spectators 
opined.  They'd  prove  it  to  the  hilt.  This  fellow  would 
swing  for  it. 

At  last  the  landlord  of  the  Talbot  Arms  at  Mambury  shuf- 
fled slowly  into  the  witness-box.  He  was  a  heavy,  dull  man, 
and  he  gave  evidence  as  to  Nevitt's  stay  under  an  assumed 
name  (which  counsel  explained  suggestively  by  the  deceased 
gentleman's  profound  love  of  retirement),  and  as  to  Guy's 
angry  remarks  and  evident  indignation.  But  the  most  sensa- 
tional part  of  all  his  evidence  was  that  which  related  to  the 
pocket-book  Montague  Nevitt  was  carrying  at  the  time  of  hi» 


'i.i 


WHAT  S   BRED    IN    THE   BONE. 


'^'60 


dreamy 
3  chilled 

him  to 
hat  was 
vn  law- 
be  very 
judicing 
,  he  was 

spoken 
;s  stood 
)  supply 

needed 

;hat  the 

remain- 

3rosecu- 

no  clew 

epening 
)pe  and 
^ndoline 
y,  and  a 
f  sweat 
couldn't 
;11.  He 
ith  con- 
es were 
em  bore 
felt  the 
They'd 
ectators 
would 

ry  shuf- 
ill  man, 
issumed 
eceased 
0  Guy's 
;  sensa- 
i  to  the 
e  of  his 


death,  containing  notes,  he  should  say,  for  several  hundred 
pounds — "or  it  murt  be  thousands,  and  yet,  again,  it  murn't" — 
which  had  totally  disappeared  since  the  day  of  the  murder. 
Diligent  search  had  been  made  for  the  pocket-book  every- 
where by  the  landlord  and  the  police,  but  it  had  vanished  into 
space,  "  leaving  not  a  wrack  behind,"  as  junior  counsel  for  the 
prosecution  poetically  phrased  it. 

At  the  words,  Cyril  mechanically  dived  his  hand  into  his 
pocket,  as  he  had  done  a  hundred  times  a  day  before,  during 
these  last  eighteen  months,  to  assure  himself  tiiat  that  most 
incriminating  and  unwelcome  object  was  still  safely  ensconced 
in  its  usual  resting-place.  Yes,  there  it  was,  sure  enough,  as 
snug  as  ever!  He  sighed,  and  pulled  his  hand  out  again  nerv- 
ously, with  a  little  jerk.  Something  came  witii  it,  that  fell  on 
the  floor  with  a  jingle  by  his  neighbor'."  feet.  Cyril  turned 
crimson,  then  deadly  pale.  He  snatched  at  the  object;  but 
his  neighbor  picked  it  up  and  examined  it  curiously.  Its  flap 
had  burst  open  with  the  force  of  the  fall,  and  on  the  inside 
the  finder  read,  with  astonishment,  in  very  plain  letters,  the 
very  name  of  the  murdered  man,  "  Montague  Nevitt." 

Cyril  held  out  his  hand  to  recover  it,  impatiently;  but  the 
finder  was  too  much  taken  back  at  his  strange  discovery  to 
part  with  it  so  readily.  It  was  full  of  money — Bank  of  Eng- 
land notes;  and  through  the  transparent  paper  of  the  outer- 
most among  them  the  finder  could  dimly  read  the  words 
"One  hundred." 

He  rose  in  his  place,  and  held  the  pocket-book  aloft  in  his 
hand  with  a  triumphant  gesture.  Cyril  tried  in  vain  to  clutch 
at  it.  The  witness  turned  round  sharply,  disturbed  by  this 
incident.  "  What's  that?"  the  judge  exclaimed,  puckering 
his  brows  in  disapprobation  and  looking  angrily  toward  the 
disturber. 

"  If  you  please,  my  lord,"  the  innkeeper  answered,  letting 
his  jaw  drop  slowly  in  almost  speechless  amazement,  "  that's 
the  thing  I  was  a-talking  of;  that's  Mr.  Nevitt's  pocket- 
book." 

"  Hand  it  up,"  the  judge  said,  shortly,  gazing  hard  with  all 
his  eyes  at  the  mute  evidence  so  tendered. 

The  finder  handed  it  up  without  note  or  comment. 

Sir  Gilbert  turned  the  book  over  in  blank  surprise.  He 
was  dumfounded  himself.  For  a  minute  or  two  he  examined 
it  carefully,  inside  and  out.    Yes;  there  was  no  mistake.     It 


236 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


M- 


was  really  what  they  called  it.  "  Montague  Nevitt "  was 
written  in  plain  letters  on  the  leather  flap;  within  lay  half  a 
dozen  engraved  visiting-cards,  a  Foreign  Office  passport  in 
Nevitt's  name,  and  thirty  Bank  of  England  notes  for  one 
hundred  pounds  apiece.     This  was  indeed  a  mystery. 

"  Where  did  it  come  from? "  the  judge  asked,  drawing  a 
painfully  deep  breath,  and  handing  it  across  to  the  jury. 

And  the  finder  answered,  "  If  you  please,  my  lord,  the  gen- 
tleman next  to  me  pulled  it  out  of  his  pocket." 

"Who  is  he?"  the  judge  inquired,  with  a  sinking  heart,  for 
he  himself  knew  perfectly  well  who  was  the  unhappy 
possessor. 

And  a  thrill  of  horror  ran  round  the  crowded  court  as 
Forbes-Ewing  answered,  in  a  very  distinct  voice,  "  Mr.  Cyril 
Waring,  my  lord,  the  brother  of  the  prisoner." 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 


SIR  GILBERT  S   TEMPTATION. 


:i  s 


Cyril  felt  all  was  up.  Elma  glanced  at  him,  trembling. 
This  was  horrible,  inconceivable,  inexplicable,  fatal!  The 
very  stars  in  their  courses  seemed  to  fight  against  Guy.  Blind 
chance  checkmated  them.  No  hope  was  left  now,  save  in 
Gilbert  Gildersleeve's  own  sense  of  justice. 

But  Sir  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  sat  there  transfixed  with  horror. 
No  answering  gleam  now  shot  through  his  dull,  glazed  eye. 
For  he  alone  knew  that  whatever  made  the  case  against  the 
prisoner  look  worse  made  his  own  position  each  moment  more 
awful  and  more  intolerable. 

Through  the  rest  of  the  case,  Cyril  sat  in  his  place  like  a 
stone  figure.  Counsel  for  the  Crown  generously  abstained 
from  putting  him  into  the  witness-box  to  give  testimony 
against  his  brother;  or,  rather,  they  thought  the  facts  them- 
selves, as  they  had  just  come  out  in  court,  more  telling  for  the 
jury  than  any  formal  evidence.  The  only  other  witness  of 
importance  was,  therefore,  the  lad  who  had  sat  on  the  gate  by 
the  en*^^rance  to  the  Tangle.  As  he  scrambled  into  the  box. 
Sir  Gilbert's  anxiety  grew  visibly  deeper  and  more  acute  than 
ever;  for  the  boy  was  the  one  person  who  had  seen  him  at 


f  i 


WHAT  S   BRED    IN    THE    I50NE. 


237 


Mambury  on  the  day  of  the  murder,  and  on  the  boy  depended 
his  sole  chance  of  being  recognized.  At  Tavistock,  cighieen 
months  before,  Sir  Gilbert  had  left  the  cross-exaniination  of 
this  witness  in  the  hands  of  a  junior;  and  the  boy  hadn't 
noticed  him,  sitting  down  among  the  bar  with  gown  and  wig 
on.  But  to-day,  it  was  impossible  the  boy  shouldn't  see  him; 
and  if  the  boy  should  recognize  him — why,  then,  heaven  help 
him! 

The  lad  gave  his  evidence-in-chief  with  great  care  and  delib- 
erateness.  He  swore  positively  to  Guy,  and  wasn't  for  a 
moment  to  be  shaken  in  cross-examination.  He  admitted 
he  had  been  mistaken  at  Tavistock,  and  confused  the  prisoner 
with  Cyril — when  he  saw  one  of  them  apart;  but  now  that  he 
saw  them,  both  together  before  his  eyes  at  once,  why,  he  could 
take  his  solemn  oath  as  sure  as  fate  upon  him.  Guy's  counsel 
failed  utterly  to  elicit  anything  of  importance,  except — and 
here  Sir  Gilbert's  face  grew  whiter  than  ever — except  that 
another  gentleman  whom  the  lad  didn't  know  had  asked  at 
the  gate  about  the  path,  and  gone  round  the  other  way  as  if  to 
meet  Mr.  Nevitt. 

"What  sort  of  a  gentleman? "  the  cross-examiner  inquired, 
clutching  at  this  last  straw  as  a  mere  chance  diversion. 

*'  Well,  a  vurry  big  zart  o'  a  gentleman,"  witness  answered, 
unabashed.  "A  vine  vigger  o'  a  man.  Jest  such  another  as 
thik  un  with  the  wig  ther." 

As  he  spokf^  he  stared  hard  at  the  judge,  a  good,  s  futinizing 
stare.  Sir  Gilbert  quailed,  and  glanced  instinctively  f^rst  at 
the  boy  and  then  at  Elma.  Not  a  spark  of  intelligence  shone 
in  the  lad's  stolid  eyes;  but  Elma's  were  fixed  upon  him  with 
a  serpentine  glare  of  awful  fascination..  "  Thou  art  the  man," 
they  seemed  to  say  to  him  mutely.  Sir  Gilbert  in  his  awe 
was  afraid  to  look  at  them.  They  made  him  wild  with  terror, 
yet  they  somehow  fixed  him.  Try  as  he  would  to  keep  his 
own  from  meeting  them,  they  attracted  him  irresistibly. 

A  ripple  of  faint  laughter  ran  lightly  through  the  court  at 
the  undisguised  frankness  of  the  boy's  reply.  The  judge 
repressed  it  sternly. 

*'0h,  he  was  just  such  another  one  as  his  lordship,  was  he?" 
counsel  repeated,  pressing  the  lad  hard.  "  Now  are  you  quite 
sure  you  remember  all  the  people  you  saw  that  day?  Are  you 
quite  sure  the  other  man  who  asked  about  passers-by  wasn't, 
for  example,  the  judge  himself  who's  sitting  here?  " 


238 


what's  brld  in  the  bone. 


ih:- 


M 


u 


I, 


Sir  Gilbert  glanced  up  with  a  quick,  suspicious  air.  It  was 
only  a  shot  at  random — the  common  advocate's  trick  in  trying 
to  confuse  a  witness  over  questions  of  identity;  but  to  Sir  Gil- 
bert, under  the  circumstances,  it  was  inexpressibly  distressing. 

''  Well,  it  murt  'a  been  he,"  the  lad  answered,  putting  his  head 
on  one  side,  and  surveying  the  judge  closely  with  prolonged 
attention.  "Thik  un  'ad  just  such  another  pair  o'  'ands  as  his 
lordship  do  *ave.  It  murt  'a  been  his  lordship  'urself  as  is 
ziuing  there!" 

"  This  goes  quite  beyond  the  bounds  of  decency,"  Sir  Gilbert 
murmured,  faintly,  with  a  vain  endeavor  to  hold  his  hands  on 
the  desk  in  an  unconcerned  attitude.  "  Have  the  kindness, 
Mr.  Walters,  to  spare  the  bench.  Attend  to  your  examination. 
Observations  of  that  sort  are  wholly  uncalled  for." 

But  the  boy,  once  started,  was  not  so  easily  repressed. 
"Why,  it  was  his  lordship,"  he  went  on,  scanning  the  judge 
still  harder.  "  I  do  mind  his  vurry  voice.  It  was  'im,  no 
doubt  about  it.  I've  zeed  a  zight  o'  people  since  I  zeed  'im 
that  day;  but  I  do  mind  his  voice,  and  J  do  mind  his  'ands^ 
and  I  do  mind  his  ve-ace  the  zame  as  if  it  wur  yesterday. 
Now  I  come  to  look,  blessed  if  it  wasn't  his  lordship!  " 

Guy's  counsel  smiled  a  triumphant  smile.  He  had  carried 
his  point.  He  had  confused  the  witness.  This  showed  how 
little  reliance  could  be  placed  upon  the  boy's  evidence  as  to 
personal  identity.  He'd  identify  anybody  who  happened  to  be 
suggested  to  him !  But  Sir  Gilbert's  face  grew  yet  more 
deadly  pale,  for  he  saw  at  a  glance  this  was  no  accident  or 
mistake;  the  boy  really  remembered  him.  And  Elma's  stead- 
fast eyes  looked  him  through  and  through,  with  that  irre- 
sistible appeal,  still  more  earnestly  than  ever. 

Sir  Gilbert  breathed  again.  He  had  been  recognized  to  no 
purpose.  Even  this  positive  identification  fell  fiat  upon  every- 
body. 

At  last  the  examination  and  cross-examination  were  fin- 
ished, and  Guy's  counsel  began  his  hopeless  task  of  unravel- 
ing this  tangled  mass  of  suggestion  and  coincidence.  He  had 
no  witnesses  to  call;  the  very  nature  of  the  case  precluded 
that.  All  he  could  do  was  to  cavil  over  details,  to  point  out 
possible  alternatives,  to  lay  stress  upon  the  absence  of  direct 
evidence,  and  to  ask  that  the  jury  should  give  the  prisoner 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  if  any  doubt  at  all  existed  in  their 
minds  as  to  his  guilt  or  innocence.    Counsel  had  meant  when 


^\ 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE    BONE. 


23ft 


re  fin- 

1  ravel - 

[e  had 

:luded 

It  out 

direct 

tisoner 

their 

when 


he  first  undertook  the  case  to  lay  great  stress  also  on  the 
presumed  absence  of  motive;  but  after  the  fatal  accident 
which  resulted  in  the  disclosure  of  Montague  Nevitt's  pocket- 
book,  any  argument  on  that  score  would  have  been  worse 
than  useless.  Counsel  elected  rather  to  pass  the  episode  by 
in  discreet  silence,  and  to  risk  everything  on  the  uncertainty 
of  the  actual  encounter. 

At  last  he  sat  down,  wiping  his  brow  in  despair,  after  what 
he  felt  himself  to  be  a  most  feel'    performance. 

Then  Sir  Gilbert  began,  and  in  a  very  tremulous  and  fail- 
ing voice  summed  up  briefly  the  whole  of  the  evidence. 

Men  who  remembered  Gildersleeve's  old  blustering  manner 
stood  aghast  at  the  timidity  with  which  the  famous  lawyer 
delivered  himself  on  this,  the  first  capital  charge  ever  brought 
before  him.  He  reminded  the  jury,  in  very  solemn  and 
almost  warning  tones,  that  where  a  human  life  was  at  stake, 
mere  presumptive  evidence  should  always  carry  very  little 
weight  with  it.  And  the  evidence  here  was  all  purely  pre- 
sumptive. The  prosecution  had  shown  nothing  more  than  a 
physical  possibility  that  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  might  have 
committed  the  murder.  There  was  evidence  of  animus,  it  was 
true,  but  that  evidence  was  weak;  there  was  partial  identifica- 
tion, but  that  identification  lay  open  to  the  serious  objection 
that  all  the  persons  who  now  swore  to  Guy  Waring's  person- 
ality had  sworn  just  as  surely  and  confidently  before  to  his 
brother  Cyril's.  On  the  whole,  the  judge  summed  up  strongly 
in  Guy's  favor.  He  wiped  his  clammy  brow  and  looked 
appealingly  at  the  bar.  As  the  jury  would  hope  for  justice 
themselves,  let  them  remember  to  mete  out  nothing  but  strict 
justice  to  the  accused  person  who  now  stood  trembling  in  the 
dock  before  them. 

All  the  court  stood  astonished.  Could  this  be  Gildersleeve? 
Atkins  would  never  have  summed  up  like  that.  Atkins  would 
have  gone  in  point-blank  for  hanging  him.  And  everybody 
thought  Gildersleeve  would  hang  with  the  best.  Nobody  had 
suspected  him  till  then  of  any  womanly  weakness  about  capi- 
tal punishment.  There  was  a  solemn  hush  as  the  judge 
ended.  Then  everybody  saw  the  unhappy  man  was  seriously 
ill.  Great  streams  of  sweat  trickled  slowly  down  his  brow 
His  eyes  stared  in  front  of  him.  His  mouth  twitched  hor- 
ribly. He  looked  like  a  person  on  the  point  of  apoplexy. 
The  prisoner  at  the  bar  gazed  hard  at  him,  and  pitied  him. 


T 


240 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


"  He's  dying  himself,  and  he  wants  to  go  out  with  a  clear 
conscience  at  last,"  someone  suggested  in  a  low  voice  at  the 
barristers'  table.  The  explanation  served.  It  was  whispered 
round  the  court  in  a  hushed  undertone  that  the  judge  to-day 
was  on  his  very  last  legs,  and  had  summed  up  accordingly. 
Late  in  life,  he  had  learned  to  show  mercy,  as  he  hoped  for  it. 

There  was  a  deadly  pause.  The  jury  retired  to  consider 
their  verdict.  Two  men  remained  behind  in  court,  waiting 
breathless  for  their  return.  Two  lives  hung  at  issue  in  the 
balance  while  the  jury  deliberated.  Elma  Clifford,  glancing 
with  a  terrified  eye  from  one  to  the  other,  could  hardly  help 
pitying  the  guiltiest  most;  his  look  of  mute  suffering  was  so 
inexpressibly  pathetic. 

Th  ;  twelve  good  men  and  true  were  gone  for  a  full  half- 
hour.  Why,  nobody  knew.  The  case  was  as  plain  as  a  pike- 
staff, gossipers  said  in  court.  If  he  had  been  caught  red- 
handed,  he'd  have  been  hanged  without  remorse.  It  was 
only  the  eighteen  months  and  the  South  African  episode  that 
could  make  the  jury  hesitate  for  one  moment  about  hanging 
him. 

At  last,  a  sound,  a  thrill,  a  movement  by  the   door, 
eye   was  strained  for.vard.     The    jury    tripped  back 
They  took  their  places  in  silence.     Sir  Gilbert  scanr 
faces  with  an  agonized  look.     It  was  a  moment  of  gh. 
painful  suspense.     He  was  waiting  for  their  verdict —  on  him 
self,  and  Guy  Waring. 


Every 

again. 

their 

.  and 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 


AT    BAY. 


Only  two  people  in  court  doubted  for  one  moment  what  the 
verdict  would  be;  and  those  two  were  the  pair  who  stood 
there  on  their  trial.  Sir  Gilbert  couldn't  believe  the  jury 
would  convict  an  innocent  man  of  the  crime  he  himself  had 
half-unwittingly  committed.  Guy  Waring  couldn  t  believe  the 
jury  would  convict  an  innocent  man  of  the  crime  he  had  never 
been  guilty  of.  So  those  two  doubted.  To  all  the  rest  the 
verdict  was  a  foregone  conclusion. 

Nevertheless,  dead  silence  reigned  everywhere  in  the  court 
as  the  clerk  of  arraigns  put  the  solemn  question,  ''Gentle- 


il 


WHAT  S   BRED    !N    THE    BONE. 


241 


a  clear 
e  at  the 
hispered 
e  to-day 
3rdingly. 
ed  for  it. 
consider 

waiting 
e  in  the 
glancing 
dly  help 
ig  was  so 

"ull  half- 
is  a  pike- 
ight  red- 
It  was 
sode  that 
hanging 

.  Every 
k  again. 
:  their 
|.  ,  and 
on  him- 


what  the 
ho  stood 
the  jury 
iself  had 
elievethe 
lad  never 
rest  the 

the  court 
"  Gentle- 


men, do  you  find  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  guilty  or  not 
guilty? " 

And  the  foreman,  clearing  his  throat,  huskily  answered, 
in  a  very  tremulous  tone,  '*We  find  him  guilty  of  willful 
murder." 

There  was  a  long,  deep  pause.  Everyone  looked  at  the 
prisoner.  Guy  Waring  stood  like  one  stunned  by  the  immen- 
sity of  the  blow.  It  was  an  awful  moment.  He  knew  he 
was  innocent;  but  he  knew  now  the  English  law  would  hang 
him. 

One  pair  of  eyes  in  the  court,  however,  was  not  fixed  on 
Guy.  Elma  Clifford,  at  that  final  and  supreme  moment,  gazed 
hard  with  all  her  soul  at  Sir  Gilbert  Gildersleeve.  Her  glance 
went  through  him.  She  sat  like  an  embodied  conscience 
before  him.  The  judge  rose  slowly,  his  eyes  riveted  on  hers. 
He  was  trembling  with  remorse,  and  deadlier  pale  than  ever. 
An  awful  lividness  stole  over  his  face.  His  lips  were  con- 
torted. His  eyebrows  quivered  horribly.  Still  gazing  straight 
at  Elma,  he  essayed  to  speak.  Twice  he  opened  his  parched 
lips;  but  his  voice  failed  him. 

"I  can  not  accept  that  finding,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  very 
solemn  tone,  battling  hard  fo'  speech  against  some  internal 
enemy.  "I  cannot  accept  it.  Clerk,  you  will  enter  a  verdict 
of  not  guilty." 

A  deep  hum  of  surprise  ran  round  the  expectant  court. 
Every  mouth  opened  wide,  and  drew  a  long,  hushed  breath. 
Senior  counsel  for  the  Crown  jumped  to  his  feet,  astonished. 
"But  why,  my  lord?"  he  asked,  tartly,  thus  balked  of  his 
success.  "  On  what  ground  does  your  lordship  decide  to  over- 
rids  the  plain  verdict  of  the  jury?  " 

The  pause  that  followed  was  inexpressibly  terrible.  Guy 
Waring  waited  fo.'  the  answer  in  an  agony  of  suspense.  He 
knew  what  it  meant  now.  With  a  rush  it  all  occurred  to  him. 
He  knew  who  was  the  murderer.  But  he  hoped  for  nothing. 
Sir  Gilbert  faltered.  Elma  Clifford's  eyes  were  upon  him  still, 
compelling  him.  "  Because,"  he  said  at  last,  with  a  still  more 
evident  physical  effort,  pumping  the  words  out  slowly, 
"I  am  here  to  administer  justice,  and  justice  I  will  adminis- 
ter. .  .  .  This  man  is  innocent.  It  was  I  myself  who  killed 
Montague  Nevitt  that  day  at  Mambury." 

At  those  awful  words,  uttered  in  a  tone  so  solemn  that  no 
one  could  doubt  either  their  truth  or  their  sincerity,  a  cold 


x 


—t^  . 


24!Z 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


! 

I 


Ml 


■t 


i! 


i 


i 

111 


l!'i' 


ft 


tl^rill  ran  responsive  through  the  packed  crowd  of  auditors. 
The  silence  was  profound.  In  its  midst  a  boy's  voice  burst 
forth  all  at  once,  directed,  as  it  seemed,  to  the  counsel  for  the 
Crown.  "  I  said  it  was  him,''  the  voice  cried,  in  a  triumphant 
tone.  "I  knowed  'um!  I  knowed  'um!  Thik  ther's  the 
man  that  axed  me  the  way  down  the  dell  the  marnin*  o'  the 
murder." 

The  judge  turned  toward  the  boy  with  a  ghastly  smile  of 
enforced  recognition  "You  say  the  truth,  my  lad,"  he 
answered,  withf  ut  any  attempt  at  concealment.  "  It  was  I  who 
asked  you.  It  was  I  who  killed  him.  I  went  round  by  the  far 
gate,  after  hearin^j  he  was  there,  and  cutting  across  the  wood,  I 
met  Montague  Nevitt  in  the  path  by  the  Tangle.  I  went  there 
to  meet  him;  I  went  there  to  confront  him;  but  not  of  malice 
prepense  to  murder  him.  I  wanted  to  question  him  about  a 
family  matter.  Why  I  needed  to  question  him  no  one  hence- 
forth shall  ever  know.  That  secret,  thank  heaven,  rests  now 
in  Montague  Nevitt's  grave.  But  when  I  did  question  him, 
he  answered  me  back  with  so  foul  an  aspersion  upon  a  lady 
who  was  very  near  aid  dear  to  me" — the  judge  paused  a 
moment;  h?  was  fighting  hard  for  breath;  something  within 
was  evidently  choking  him.  Then  he  went  on  more  excitedly 
— "  an  aspersion  upon  a  lady  whom  I  love  more  than  life — 
an  insult  that  no  man  could  stand — an  unspeakable  foulness; 
and  I  sprung  at  him,  the  cur,  in  the  white  heat  of  my  anger, 
not  meaning  or  dreaming  to  hurt  him  seriously.  I  caught  him 
by  the  throat."  The  judge  held  up  his  hands  before  the  whole 
court  rppealingly.  *'  Look  at  those  hands,  gentlemen,"  he 
cried,  turning  them  about.  "How  could  I  ever  know  how 
liard  and  how  strong  they  were?  I  only  seemed  to  touch  him. 
?!  just  pushed  him  from  my  path.  He  fell  at  once  at  my  f«et 
—  -dead,  dead,  unexpectedly.  Remember  how  it  all  came  about. 
Thr  ruedical  evidence  showed  his  heart  was  weak,  and  he  died 
iii  the  sci  ffle.  How  was  I  to  know  all  that?  I  only  knew 
this — he  fell  dead  before  me." 

With  a  face  of  speechless  awe,  he  paused  and  wiped  hia 
brow.  Not  a  soul  in  court  moved  or  breathed  above  a 
whisper.  It  was  evident  the  judge  was  in  a  paroxysm  of  ::on- 
tncion.  His  face  was*  drawn  up.  His  whole  frame  quivered 
visibly.    Even  Elma  pitied  him. 

"  And  then  I  did  a  grievous  wrong,"  the  judge  continued 
once  more,  his  voice  now  very  thick  and  growing  rapidly 


* 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


243 


Luditors. 
ce  burst 
I  for  the 
imphant 
er's  the 
ti'  o*  the 

smile  of 
ad,"  he 
IS  I  who 
>r  the  far 
wood,  I 
int  there 
t  malice 
about  a 
;  hencc- 
!sts  now 
ion  him, 
1  a  lady 
aused  a 
f  within 
xcitedly 
in  life — 
oulness; 
anger, 
ghthim 
e  whole 
en,"  he 
3W  how 
ich  him. 
my  feet 
e  about, 
he  died 
knew 

ped  hi& 
t»ove  a 
of  ?,on- 
uivered 

ntinued 
rapidly 


thicker.  **  I  did  a  grievous  wrong,  for  which  here  to-day, 
before  all  this  court,  I  humbly  ask  Guy  Waring's  pardon.  1 
had  killed  Montague  Nevitt,  unintentionally,  unwittingly, 
accidentally  almost,  in  a  moment  of  anger,  never  knowing  1 
was  killing  him.  And  if  he  had  been  a  stronger  or  a  healthier 
man,  what  little  I  did  to  him  would  never  liave  killed  him. 
1  didn't  mean  to  murder  him.  For  that  my  remorse  is  far  less 
poignant.  But  what  1  did  after  was  far  wori,e  than  the  mur- 
der. I  behaved  like  a  sneak.  1  behaved  like  a  coward.  1 
saw  suspicion  was  aroused  against  the  prisoner,  Guy  Waring. 
And  what  did  1  do  then  f  Instead  of  coming  forward  like  a 
man,  as  I  ought,  and  saying  *1  did  it,*  and  standing  my  trial 
on  the  charge  of  manslaughter,  I  did  my  best  to  throw  further 
suspicion  on  an  innocent  person,  I  made  the  case  look 
blacker  and  worse  for  Guy  Waring.  1  don't  cpndone  my  own 
crime.  I  did  it  for  my  wife's  sake  and  my  daughter's,  1  admit 
— but  I  regret  it  now,  bitterly — and  am  I  not  atoning  for  it  ? 
With  a  great  humiliation,  am  1  not  amply  atoning  for  it  ?  1 
wrote  an  unsigned  letter  warning  Waring  at  once  to  fly  the 
country,  as  a  warrant  was  out  against  him.  Waring  foolishly 
took  my  advice,  and  fled  forthwith.  From  that  day  to  this," 
— he  gazed  round  him  appealingly — "  oh,  friends,  1  have  never 
known  one  happy  moment." 

Guy  gazed  at  him  from  the  dock,  where  he  still  stood 
guarded  by  two  strong  policemen,  and  felt  a  fresh  light  break 
suddenly  in  upon  him.  Their  positions  now  were  almost 
reversed.  It  was  he  whc  was  the  accuser,  and  Sir  Gilbert 
Gildersleeve,  the  judge  in  that  court,  who  stood  charged 
to-day,  on  his  own  confession,  with  '^ausing  the  death  of  Mon- 
tague Nevitt. 

'•Then  it  vfn^yot/,"  Guy  said,  slov/lj^,  breaking  the  pause  at 
last,  "  v;ho  sent  me  that  anonymous,  letter  at  Plymouth  ? " 

"  It  was  I,'  the  judge  answered,  in  an  almost  inaudible, 
gurgling  tone.  '*  It  was  I  who  so  wronged  you.  Can  you  ever 
forgive  me  for  it  ? " 

Guy  gazed  at  him  fixedly.  He  himself  had  suffered  much. 
Cyril  and  Elma  had  suffered  still  more.  But  the  judge,  he 
felt  sure,  had  suffered  most  of  all  of  them.  In  this  moment 
of  relief,  this  moment  of  vindication,  this  moment  of  triumph, 
he  could  afford  to  be  generous.  "  Sir  Gilbert  Gildersleeve,  1 
forgive  you,"  he  anr>wered,  slowly. 

The  judge  gazed  around  him  with  a  vacant  stare.    "  I  feel 


u^ 


what's  bred  !n  the  bone. 


l!'») 


SI' 


cold,"  he  said,  shivering;  "  very  cold,  very  faint,  too.  But 
I've  made  all  right  /tere^"  and  he  held  out  a  document.  "I 
wrote  this  paper  ii  my  room  last  night — in  case  of  accident 
— confessing  everything.  I  brought  it  down  here,  signed  and 
witnessed,  unread,  intending  to  read  it  out  if  the  verdict  went 
against  me — I  mean  against  Waring.  .  .  .  But  I  feel  too 
weak  now  to  read  anything  further.  .  .  .  I'm  so  cold,  so 
cold.  Take  the  paper,  Forbes-Ewing.  It's  all  in  your  line. 
You'll  know  what  to  do  with  it."  He  could  hardly  utter  a 
word,  breath  failed  him  so  fast.  "  This  thing  has  killed  me," 
he  went  on,  mumbling.     "  I  deserved  it,     I  deserved  it." 

"  How  about  the  prisoner  ? "  the  authority  from  the  jail 
asked,  as  the  judge  collapsed  rather  than  sat  down  on  the 
bench  again. 

Those  words  roused  Sir  Gilbert  to  full  consciousness  once 
more.  The  judge  rose  again,  solemnly,  in  all  the  majesty  of 
his  ermine.  "  The  prisoner  is  discharged,"  he  said,  in  a  loud, 
clear  voice.  "  I  am  here  to  do  justice — justice  against  myself. 
1  enter  a  verdict  of  not  guilty."  Then  he  turned  to  the  police. 
"  1  am  your  prisoner,"  he  went  on,  in  a  broken,  rambling  way. 
••  I  give  myself  in  charge  for  the  manslaughter  of  Montague 
Nevitt.  Manslaughter,  not  murder;  though  I  don't  even 
admit  myself,  indeed,  it  was  anything  more  than  justifiable 
homicide." 

He  sunk  back  again  once  more,  and  murmured  three  times 
in  his  seat,  as  if  to  himself,  "  Justifiable  homicide  !  Justifi- 
able homicide  !     Just — ifiable  homicide  ! " 

Somebody  rose  in  court  as  he  sunk,  and  moved  quickly 
toward  him.     The  judge  recognized  him  at  once. 

"  Granville  Kelmscott,"  he  said,  in  a  weary  voice,  "  help  me 
out  of  this.  I'm  very,  very  ill.  You're  a  friend.  I'm  dying. 
Give  me  your  arm  !    Assist  me  !  '* 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

all's  well  that  ends  well. 

Granville  helped  him  on  his  arm  into  the  judge's  room  amid 
profound  silence.  All  the  court  was  deeply  stirred.  A  few 
personal  friends  hurried  after  him  eagerly.  Among  them  were 
the  WaringSy  and  Mrs.  Clifford  and  Elma. 


WHAT  S  BRED   IN   THE  BONE. 


245 


:kly 


The  judge  staggered  to  a  seat,  and  held  Granville's  hand 
long  and  silently  in  his.  Then  his  eye  caught  Elma's.  He 
turned  to  her  gratefully.  **  Thank  you,  young  lady,"  he  said, 
in  a  very  thick  voice.  "  You  are  extremely  good.  I  forget 
your  name;  but  you  helped  me  greatly." 

There  was  such  a  pathetic  ring  in  those  significant  words, 
"  I  forget  your  name,"  that  every  eye  about  stood  dimmed 
with  moisture.  Remorse  had  clearly  blotted  out  all  else  now 
from  Sir  Gilbert  Gildersleeve's  powerful  brain  save  the  soli- 
tary memory  of  his  great  wrong-doing. 

"  Something's  upon  his  mind  still,"  Elma  cried,  looking  hard 
at  him.  "  He's  dying!  he's  dying!  But  he  wants  to  say 
something  else  before  he  dies,  I'm  certain.  .  .  .  Mr.  Kelm- 
scott,  it's  to  you.  Oh,  Cyril,  stand  back!  Mother,  leave  them 
alone!  I'm  sure  from  his  eye  he  wants  to  say  something  to 
Mr.  Kelmscott." 

They  all  fell  back  reverently.  They  stood  in  the  presence  of 
death  and  of  a  mighty  sorrow.  Sir  Gilbert  still  held  Gran- 
ville's hand  fast  bound  in  his  own.  "  It'll  kill  her!  "  he  mut- 
tered. "  It'll  kill  her!  I'm  sure  it'll  kill  her!  She'll  never 
get  over  the  thought  that  her  father  was — was  the  cause  of 
Montague  Nevitt's  death.  And  you'll  never  care  to  marry  a 
girl  of  whom  people  will  say,  either  justly  or  unjustly,  *  She's 
a  murderer's  daughter.'  .  .  .  And  that  will  kill  her,  too; 
for,  Kelmscott,  she  loves  you." 

Granville  held  the  dying  man's  hand  still  more  gently  than 
ever.  "  Sir  Gilbert,"  he  said,  leaning  over  him  with  very  tender 
eyes,  "  no  event  on  earth  could  ever  possibly  alter  Gwendo- 
line's love  for  me  or  my  love  for  Gwendoline.  I  know  you 
can't  live.  This  shock  has  been  too  much  for  you.  But  if  it 
will  make  you  die  any  happier  now  to  know  that  Gwendo- 
line and  I  will  still  be  one,  I  give  you  my  sacred  promise,  at 
this  solemn  moment,  that  as  soon  as  she  likes  I  will  marry 
Gwendoline."  He  paused  for  a  second.  "  I  don't  understand 
all  this  story  just  yet,"  he  went  on.  "  But  of  one  thing  I'm 
certain — the  sympathy  of  every  soul  in  court  to-day  went 
with  you  as  you  spoke  out  the  truth  so  manfully;  the  sym- 
pathy of  all  England  will  go  with  you  to-morrow  when  they 
come  to  learn  of  it.  .  .  .  Sir  Gilbert,  till  this  morning  I  never 
admired  you,  much  as  I  love  Gwendoline.  As  you  made  that 
confession  just  now  in  court,  I  declare  I  admired  you.  With 
all  the  greater  confidence  now  will  I  marry  your  daughter.' 


n 


24/6 


what's  bred  in  the  bone. 


They  carried  him  to  the  judge's  lodgings  in  the  town,  and 
laid  him  there  peaceably  for  the  doctors  to  tend  him.  For  a 
fortnight  the  shadow  of  Gilbert  Gildersleeve  still  lingered  on, 
growing  feebler  and  feebler  in  intellect  every  day.  But  the 
end  was  certain.  It  was  softening  of  the  brain,  and  it  pro- 
ceeded rapidly.  The  horror  of  that  unspeakable  trial  had 
wholly  unnerved  him.  The  great  strong  man  cried  and  sobbed 
like  a  baby.  Lady  Gildersleeve  and  Gwendoline  were  with 
him  all  through.  He  seldom  spoke.  When  he  did,  it  was 
generally  to  murmur  those  fixed  words  of  exculpation,  in  a 
tremulous  undertone,  "  It  was  my  hands  that  did  it  —  these 
great  clumsy  hands  of  mine — not  I — not  I.  I  never,  never 
meant  it.  It  was  an  accident.  An  accident.  Justifiable 
homicide.  .  .  .  What  I  really  regret  is  for  that  poor  fellow 
Waring." 

And  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight  he  died,  once  smiling,  with 
Gwendoline's  hand  locked  tight  in  his  own,  and  Granville 
Kelmscott  kneeling,  in  tears,  by  his  bedside. 

The  Kelmscott  property  was  settled  by  arrangement.  It 
never  came  into  court.  With  the  aid  of  the  family  lawyers, 
the  three  half-brothers  divided  it  amicably.  Guy  wouldn't 
hear  of  Granville's  giving  up  his  claim  to  the  house  and  park 
at  Tilgate.  Granville  was  to  the  manner  born,  he  said,  and 
brought  up  to  expect  it;  while  Cyril  and  he,  mere  waifs  and 
strays  in  the  world,  would  be  much  better  off,  even  so,  with 
their  third  of  the  property  each,  than  they  ever  before  in  their 
lives  could  have  counted  upon.  As  for  Cyril,  he  was  too  happy 
in  Guy's  exculpation  from  the  greater  crime,  and  his  frank 
explanation  of  the  lesser  (under  Nevitt's  influence),  to  care 
very  much  in  his  own  heart  what  became  of  Tilgate. 

The  only  man  who  objected  to  this  arrangement  was 
Mr.  Reginald  Clifford,  C.  M.  G.,  of  Craighton.  The  Companion 
of  the  Militant  Saints  was  strongly  of  opinion  that  Cyril 
Waring  oughtn't  to  have  given  up  his  prior  claim  to  the  family 
mansion,  even  for  valuable  consideration  elsewhere.  Mr.  Clif- 
ford drew  himself  up  to  the  full  height  of  his  spare  figure, 
and  caught  in  the  tight  skin  of  his  mummy-like  face  rather 
tighter  than  before,  as  he  delivered  himself  of  this  profound 
opinion:  "  A  man  should  consult  his  own  dignity,"  he  said, 
stifHy,  and  with  great  precision;  "if  he's  born  to  assume  a 
position  in  the  county,  he  should  assume  that  position  as  a 


what's  bred  in  the  bonb. 


247 


sacred  duty.  He  should  remember  that  his  wife  and 
children — " 

"  But  he  hasn't  got  any  wife,  papa,"  Elma  ventured  to  inter- 
pose, with  a  bright  little  smile;  "  so  that  can't  count  either 
way." 

"He  hasn't  a  wife  at  present,  to  be  sure;  that's  perfectly 
true,  my  dear;  no  wife  at  present;  but  he  will  probably  now, 
in  his  existing  circumstances,  soon  obtain  one.  A  man  of 
property  should  always  marry.  Mr.  Waring  will  naturally 
desire  to  ally  himself  to  some  family  of  good  position  in  the 
county;  and  the  lady's  relations  would,  of  course,  insist — " 

"  Well,  it  doesn't  matter  to  us,  papa,"  Elma  answered,  mali- 
ciously; "for  as  far  as  we're  concerned,  you  know,  you've 
often  said  that  nothing  on  earth  would  ever  induce  you  to  give 
your  consent." 

The  gentleman  of  good  position  in  the  county  gazed  at 
his  daughter  aghast  with  horror.  "  My  dear  child,"  he  said, 
with  positive  alarm,  "  your  remarks  are  nothing  short  of 
revolutionary.  You  must  remember  that  since  then  circum- 
stances have  altered.  At  that  time,  Mr.  Waring  was  a 
painter — " 

"  He's  a  painter  still,  I  believe,"  Elma  put  in,  parenthetic- 
ally. "  The  acquisition  of  property  or  county  rank  doesn't 
seem  to  have  had  the  slightest  effect,  one  way  or  the 
other,  upon  his  drawing  or  his  coloring." 

Her  father  disdained  to  take  notice  of  such  flippant  remarks. 
"At  that  time,"  he  repeated,  solemnly,  "Mr.  Waring  was  a 
painter,  a  mere  ordinary  painter;  we  know  him  now  to  be  the 
heir  and  representative  of  a  great  county  family.  If  he  were 
to  ask  you  to-day — " 

"  But  he  did  ask  me  a  long  time  ago,  you  know,  papa," 
Elma  put  in,  demurely.  "  And  at  that  time,  you  remember, 
you  objected  to  the  match;  so  of  course,  as  in  duty  bound,  I 
at  once  refused  him." 

"  And  what  did  your  father  say  to  that,  Elma? "  Cyril  asked, 
with  a  smile,  as  she  narrated  the  whole  circumstances  to  him 
some  hours  later. 

"  Oh,  he  only  said,  *  But  he'll  ask  you  again  now,  you  may 
be  sure,  my  child.'  And  I  replied,  very  gravely,  I  didn't  think 
you  would.  And  do  you  know,  Cyril,  I  really  don't  think  you 
will,  either." 

"Why  not,  Elma?" 


mm 


IV. 


I] 

1 1 


I 


M8 


WHAT  S   BRED   IN    THE   BONE. 


"  Because,  you  foolish  boy,  it  isn't  the  least  bit  in  the  world 
necessary.  This  has  been,  all  through,  a  comedy  of  errors 
Tragedy  enough  intermixed;  but  still  a  comedy  of  errors. 
There  never  was  really  any  reason  on  earth  why  either  of  us 
shouldn't  have  married  the  other.  And  the  only  thing  I  now 
regret  myself  is  that  I  didn't  do  as  I  first  threatened,  and 
marry  you  outright,  just  to  show  my  confidence  in  you  and 
Guy,  at  the  time  when  everybody  else  had  turned  most  against 
you." 

"  Well,  suppose  we  make  up  for  lost  time  now  by  saying 
Wednesday  fortnight,"  Cyril  suggested,  after  a  short  pause, 
during  which  both  of  them  simultaneously  had  been  otherwise 
occupied. 

"Oh,  Cyril  that's  awfully  quick!  It  could  hardly  be  man- 
aged. There's  the  dresses,  and  all  that!  And  the  brides- 
maids to  arrange  about!  And  the  invitations  to  issue!  .  .  . 
But  still,  sooner  than  put  you  off  any  longer  now — well,  yes, 
my  dear  boy — I  dare  say  we  could  make  it  Wednesday 
fortnight." 


The  End. 


in  the  world 
dy  of  errors, 
y  of  errors, 
either  of  us 

thing  I  now 
satened,  and 

in  you  and 
most  against 

V  by  saying 
short  pause, 
en  otherwise 

rdly  be  man- 
the  brides- 

>  issue!  .  .  . 

N — well,  yes, 
Wednesday 


